UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


•Accessions  No.  (00/^3. 

7 


SONGS 

OF 

DUSK  AND  DAWN 


BY 


WALTER  MALONE 


BUFFALO 

CHARLES  WELLS  MOULTON 
1895 


WYIESITT 


COPYRIGHT,  1895, 
BY  WALTER  MALONE. 


1215 


TO  MY  BROTHER, 

JAMES  HENR  Y  MAL  ONE, 

2  INSCRIBE  THIS  VOLUME. 


PREFACE. 

volume  contains  all  verses  written  by  me 
during  the  last  two  years,  as  well  as  most  of 
those  included  in  "  Narcissus  and  Other  Poems," 
published  in  1892,  and  a  few  lines  from  "The 
Outcast  and  Other  Poems,"  which  appeared  in 
1885,  and  "  Claribel  and  Other  Poems,"  printed 
in  1882. 

The  earliest  of  these  books  was  published  by  me 
when  I  was  only  sixteen  years  old  and  the  next 
when  I  was  nineteen.  Of  course  these  youthful 
efforts  were  very  crude  and  all  their  lines  bore 
marks  of  puerility  and  immaturity.  Although  the 
first  two  books  contained  together  over  six-hundred 
pages,  composing  the  largest  works,  I  believe,  ever 
issued  by  a  minor,  I  have  reprinted  from  them  only 
a  few  hundred  lines. 

I  have  been  tempted  to  suppress  them  entirely, 
but  I  feel  sure  that  no  one  will  blame  me  for  the 
love  I  bear  these  first-born  children  of  my  boyish 
fancy,  which  constrains  me  to  spare  their  lives. 
And  when  the  critics  come  with  their  merciless 
sickles,  I  beg  them  to  deal  gently  with  the  few  little 
homely  wildflowers  which  I  have  saved  from  amid 
that  waste  of  weeds. 


TJlU7BRSXT7 


UNIVERSITY 


PONCE  DE  LEON          .....        9 

NARCISSUS  ......  30 

THE  MENDELSSOHN  WEDDING  MARCH       .  .      54 

"THE  LOVE  OF  WOMAN."          ...  57 

"As  MORNING  COMES."        .  .  .  '59 

BETROTHED  .....  60 

A  GIFT  .......      6r 

"To  ONE  WHO  WILL  UNDERSTAND."  .  62 

"I  LOVE  THY  FAULTS."        .  .  .  .63 

L'AMANTE   DU   DlABLB        ....  64 

THE  POTTERS  FIELD  .  .  .  .  .70 

TEMPTED     ......  75 

THE  RESURRECTION    .  .  .  .  .78 

SEPARATED  ......  81 

FORTUNE  TELLING     .  .  .  .  .82 

"I  WONDER  WHY."         ....  84 

LIFE       .......      85 

"I  KNOW  NOT  WHY  I  LOVE  THEE."  .  .  86 

THE  REDBIRD  .  .  .  .  .  .87 

THE  CAPTIVE  MOCKING-BIRD     ...  93 

THE  REVELLERS          .  .  .  .  -95 

OUT  OF  THE  FOLD  ....  99 

"WHEN  THOU  ART  NEAR."  .  .  .103 

"To  ONE  WHO  SHALL  BE  NAMELESS."  .  105 

HER  SECRET    ......     107 

"EVERYTHING  NEW  UNDER  THE  SUN."  .  109 

ORPHEUS  AND  THE  SIRENS  ....     no 

ETERNAL  LOVE      .  .  .  .  .118 

"JESUS  WEPT."  .  .  .  .  .121 


Contents. 

THE  GRAVEYARD  .  .  .  .  .124 

A  VANISHED  SUMMER  .  .  .  .126 

THE  ONE  LOVE     .           .           .           .           .  129 

"HE  WHO  HATH  LOVED."  ....  130 

UNSPOKEN  LOVE    .....  131 

"Tnou  LITTLE  DREAMEST   '            .            .            .  132 

SONNET        ...                       .  133 

A  BRIDAL  BALLAD      .....  134 

THE  BYRON  CENTENARY— 1788-1888      .            .  137 

A  WEDDING  SONG      .....  138 

THE  FIRST  TRANGRESSION         .           .           .  140 

GLADSTONE       ......  142 

DYNAMITE  ......  144 

SHELLEY            ......  147 

WILL  HUBBARD  KERNAN            ...  148 

A  MODERN  JULIET      .....  149 

THE  PRINCE'S  WEDDING             ...  151 

ELIZABETH  AND  ESSEX           ....  157 

MY  QUEEN  ......  160 

WHEN  I  GET  RICH    .  .  .  .  .161 

THE  POSTMAN        .....  165 

BYRON    .  .  .  .  .  .  .167 

To  DR.  J.  J.  WHEAT        .           .           .           ,,,  169 
A  VISION  IN  ASHES   .            .            .            .            .171 

A  FIRESIDE  PHANTOM      ....  173 

TRIUMPHANT  LOVE     .....  178 

THE  OLD  COLLEGE  DAYS           .            .            .  180 

THE  MOCKING-BIRD    .....  183 

"YE  BACHELOR."             ....  190 

A  FLOWER  FROM  THE  GRAVE  OF  SHELLEY          .  193 

THE  LITTLE  WANDERER             .            .            .  195 

" SCORN  NOT  THE  HEART."             .           .           .  198 

CONFIRMATION       .....  199 

"MARY." 200 

"BACK  TO  THE  WORLD."  202 


Contents. 

FRAGMENTS  FROM 

"THE  OUTCAST  AND  OTHER  POEMS." 

MORNING          ......  205 

EVENING      ......  205 

AUTUMN  .  .  .  .  .  .206 

THREE  SOUTHERN  SCENES         .           .           .  208 

To  ONE  DEPARTED     .....  212 

THE  CYNIC  ......  213 

A  STORM  IN  SUMMER             ....  214 

"THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  END."         .           .  217 

MARTYRDOM      ......  219 

THE  POET  ......  219 

BEFORE  THE  BATTLE  .            .            .            .            .  219 

THE  BATTLE          .....  220 

THE  SPRING     .  .  .  .  .  .221 

PATRIOTISM            .....  222 

MARCH  .......  222 

A  FATHER'S  CURSE          ....  223 

"THE  ONE  THING  NEEDFUL."        .           .           .  223 

IN  PARADISE     .                   .           .           .           .  224 

STANZAS  TO  MADELINE    ....  225 

CALLISTA           ......  226 

ON  A  LOCK  OF  MARIE  ANTOINETT'S  HAIR    .  229 
DELIA     .            .            .            .            .           .            .232 

MORTALITY             .....  233 

A  WISH             ......  234 

THE  BARD  ......  235 

FRAGMENTS  FROM 

"CLARIBEL  AND  OTHER  POEMS." 

INEZ       .                                               ...  239 

REALIZED  HOPES  .....  241 

DESPAIR  .  .  .  .  .  .241 

THE  COMING  OF  APRIL   ....  242 


Contents. 

THE  HUMMING-BIRD  .....  246 

A  WINTER  MIDNIGHT      ....  248 

OPPORTUNITY  ......  248 

THE  VICTOR  .            .                    .            .            .  248 

LOVE  AFTER  DEATH  .....  248 

ONE  SUMMER          .....  249 

TRIBUTE  TO  SHELLEY  .  .  .  .253 


SONGS  OF  DUSK  AND  DAWN 


PONCE  DE  LEON. 


AT  midnight  Ponce  de  Leon  stood  alone 
Beneath  the  grey  sails  of  his  sea-worn  ship, 
His  fierce  eyes  faded  by  the  flight  of  years, 
His  broad  brow  withered  by  a  thousand  toils. 
Around  him  spread  the  boundless  southern  seas, 
Above  him  hung  the  mystic  southern  skies; 
Seas  never  plowed  by  ships  of  men  before, 
The  phantom  gateway  to  a  phantom  world, 
Unfolding  marvels  in  their  magic  isles 
Held  close  in  secret  since  the  world  began: 
Skies  that  have  never  seen  their  realms  revealed 
Though  watched  and  gazed  upon  six-thousand  years, 
With  starry  isles  that  saw  the  birth  of  Time, 
Whose  godlike  glories  none  shall  ever  know. 

The  mighty  yellow  moon  began  to  rise, 
Beyond  the  gaunt  palms  of  a  rocky  isle 
In  all  the  golden  glory  of  the  south, 
Undimmed  through  ruins  of  the  myriad  years, 
Revealing  secrets  of  this  new-found  world, 
Herself  a  secret  never  to  be  told. 

And  Ponce  de  Leon  lingered  still  alone, 
For  none  among  his  sailors  knew  his  plans, 


io  Ponce  de  Leon. 

Ana  none  could  understand  his  vague,  vain  dreams  ; 

And  though  his  feet  were  treading  in  their  midst, 

His  soul  was  sailing  in  a  ship  alone, 

Upon  an  ocean  in  another  world. 

And  then  he  spoke  in  whispers  to  himself: 

' '  I  see  the  moon  rise  as  in  years  of  yore 

She  rose  above  the  Andalusian  skies, 

And  silvered  castle  turrets  on  the  heights, 

And  haunted  grottos  far  away  in  Spain, 

A  wondrous  blossom  fading  night  by  night, 

And  yet  renewed  in  splendor  evermore. 

' '  But  those  who  watched  her  with  me  when  a  boy, 
Have  passed  forever  from  the  sight  of  men, 
And  left  me  grey  and  lone  and  desolate, 
A  relic  of  a  generation  dead. 
A  thousand  leagues  of  ocean  sweep  and  swirl 
Between  me  and  their  graves  in  distant  Spain; 
The  same  old  moonlight  trembling  on  their  tombs 
Far,  far  away  in  scenes  of  perished  years, 
Across  the  waves  of  ocean  wild  and  wide 
Now  trembles  on  me,  treading  earth  alone, 
Surrounded  by  the  youthful  and  the  gay, 
Dissevered  from  old  faces  that  I  knew, 
A  living  spectre  of  the  vanished  years. 

' '  In  days  long  perished,  with  this  loyal  sword, 
I  smote  the  Moors  on  many  a  battlefield, 
Or  fought  the  savage  in  this  new-found  world; 
But  now  it  quakes  and  quivers  in  my  hand, 


Ponce  de  Lean.  n 

And  now  its  keen  edge  cankers  into  rust. 
The  younger  soldiers  see  me  with  a  smile, 
And  whisper  that  my  time  has  passed  away. 
Then,  all  the  grand  old  friends  that  once  I  knew, 
With  whom  I  braved  the  perils  of  the  deep, 
When  bold  Columbus  sailed  the  trackless  seas, 
Have  left  me,  passing  to  another  world 
Whose  seas  forever  shall  be  unexplored. 

4 1  Once,  in  those  dear  days,  ere  my  raven  hair 
Was  flecked  with  frost  of  melancholy  years, 
When   my   young   heart   seemed   full  of  summer 

warmth, 

And  the  fresh  fragrance  of  the  flowery  fields; 
When  sunny  skies  hung  in  a  mellow  maze 
And  all  the  world  was  wreathed  in  garlands  green; 
When  pearly  peach  blooms  in  the  orchards  blew, 
And  tuneful  thrushes  wove  their  happy  nests, 
I  wandered  with  a  maiden  whom  I  loved, 
The  fairest  and  the  sweetest  of  the  earth. 
Ah  well  I  now  remember  when  she  said 
4 1  love  you,'  how  the  tell-tale  robins  trilled; 
And  when  I  kissed  her  loving  little  lips, 
The  dewy  daisies  kissed  her  little  feet. 

* '  But  then  we  parted  by  the  dear  old  gate, 

Beside  the  roadway  leading  to  the  town; 

And  as  I  clasped  her  ere  I  went  away, 

We  vowed  to  love  each  other  evermore. 

But  leagues  of  desert,  mountain,  wold  and  wave 


12  Ponce  de  Leon. 

Came  in  between  us,  as  an  awful  storm 

Dissevers  two  ships  far  away  at  sea; 

And  yet  we  loved  each  other  all  the  more, 

Longing  to  press  each  other's  lips  again, 

To  gaze  once  more  within  each  other's  eyes, 

To  speak  once  more  the  old,  old  words  of  love. 

But  year  by  year  sped  swiftly,  and  at  last, 

We  both  grew  grey  beneath  their  wizard  wings. 

So  when  at  last  we  two  had  met  again, 

Both  shrank  back,  startled,  at  the  fearful  change. 

"Ah,  poor  old  woman!     All  thy  golden  locks, 
Had  grizzled  long  before  to  grey,  while  age 
Plucked,  one  by  one,  the  roses  from  thy  face, 
And  dimmed  with  winter's  tearful  twilight  gloom 
The  summer  splendor  of  thy  dear  blue  eyes. 
My  boyhood  bloom  had  vanished  from  my  face, 
And  left  an  old  man,  poor  and  desolate. 

'  'Alas !   I  dare  not  tell  the  hateful  tale 
Of  disappointment  and  of  chill  despair, 
Of  how  I  shunned  her  and  she  turned  from  me; 
How  all  the  leagues  of  ocean  and  of  earth 
Had  bound  us  closer  with  a  chain  of  love, 
And  yet  the  years  had  stolen  in  between, 
And  like  a  throng  of  traitors,  slow  but  sure, 
Had  separated  us  forevermore. 

' '  Since  we  have  parted,  I  have  roamed  the  world 
To  find  the  Fount  of  Youth,  whose  crystal  waves 


Ponce  de  Leon.  13 

Shall  make  us  young  again ;  but  evermore 
My  dreams  and  visions  all  are  doomed  to  die. 
The  crafty  red  men,  wishing  to  be  free 
From  pillage  of  my  soldiers,  ever  tell 
Of  this,  the  mystic  fountain  of  my  dreams, 
As  being  just  beyond  their  native  lands. 
Yet  as  I  journey  onward,  hoping  still, 
They  ever  point  me  further  to  the  north; 
And  so  I  seek  forevermore  in  vain. 
But  I  shall  never  cease  to  journey  on, 
Until  I  find  Immortal  Youth,  or  Death." 

n. 

All  worn  and  weary  with  his  weight  of  cares, 
He  sank  in  troubled  slumber  on  the  deck. 
He  dreamed  he  wandered  through  a  desert  waste 
Of  red  sands,  parching  underneath  red  suns, 
Where  withered   rocks  were   never  decked   with 

dews, 

Nor  shriveled  skies  refreshed  with  cooling  clouds; 
But  flamed  forever  with  a  feverish  fire, 
Like  aching  eyes  too  sore  with  grief  for  tears; 
Where   bubbling  fountains,    blossoms,    birds   and 

trees. 
Had  not  existed  since  the  world  began. 

His  feet  were  bleeding  on  the  cruel  flints, 

His  tongue  was  throbbing  with  a  maddening  thirst; 

At  last  he  sank  upon  the  sands  to  die: 

Then,  ere  he  closed  his  eyes,  far,  far  away, 


14  Ponce  de  Leon. 

Where  the  red  sun  was  rising  in  the  east 
Like  a  great  giant  rousing  in  his  wrath, 
He  saw  the  snowy  peaks  and  plumy  palms 
Of  an  oasis  green  as  emerald. 

Then  all  his  hopes  revived  like  fading  flowers 
That  open  to  the  patter  of  the  rain; 
He  roused  himself  and  journeyed  on  again, 
Until  he  reached  that  peerless  paradise. 
And  when  his  aching  limbs  reposed  at  last 
On  dewy  mosses  by  its  silvery  springs, 
He  laughed  and  shouted  with  a  frenzied  joy, 
Till  reason  came  again  to  soothe  his  soul, 
And  then  he  gazed  around  in  wonderment. 

Magnolias  waved  their  glossy  boughs  of  green. 

With  great  white  blossoms  bursting  into  bloom, 

Like  moonlight  on  the  bosom  of  a  swan; 

The  golden  jasmines  swung  their  chalices, 

And  scattered  such  sweet  odors  on  the  air, 

That  blithesome  breezes  swooned  and  reeled  with 

joy, 

And  kissed  them  dying  in  delicious  love; 
The  frail  wild  roses  trembled  on  their  stems, 
Like  modest  maidens  robed  in  spotless  silk; 
The  redbird  flamed  amid  the  verdant  boughs, 
A  royal  ruby  in  an  emerald  throne; 
The  bluebird,  like  a  feathered  violet, 
Whose  fragile  fragrance  vanished  in  a  song, 
Played   with    the   humming-birds,   whose  jeweled 
wings 


Ponce  de  Leon.  15 

Would  sparkle  like  a  dazzling  shower  of  gems; 
The  mock-bird  sang  with  all  his  fervent  soul, 
As  though  the  ghost  of  some  great  bard  of  old 
Had  come  to  live  in  bosom  of  a  bird, 
With  tongue  of  silver  and  a  heart  of  gold. 
And  there,  amid  the  blossom-tangled  vines, 
The  trembling  leaflets  and  the  trilling  birds, 
A  crystal  fountain,  like  a  storm  of  snow 
Leaped  in  its  sparkling  splendor  far  on  high, 
In  clouds  of  plumy  vapor,  frosty  spray 
And  dazzling  dew-drops,  with  their  diamond  hues. 

Beside  it,  stood  a  maiden,  bright  as  morn, 

A  crystal  goblet  brimming  in  her  hands 

With  bubbling  radiance,  like  a  crown  of  gems 

Or  like  a  spotless,  palpitating  star. 

A  gauzy  garment  fluttered  round  her  limbs, 

Too  frail  to  hide  her  lustrous  loveliness; 

And  there  she  stood,  so  pure,  diaphanous, 

The  sunlight  through  her  crystal  splendor  shone, 

And  one  might  see  the  pearly  lily  bells 

Shine  through  the  wine-like  beauty  of  her  breasts, 

And  feathery  ferns  through  light,  transparent  arms, 

While  humming-birds  were  tangled  and  ensnared 

Amid  the  mazes  of  her  golden  hair, 

And  frailest  water  lilies  bended  not 

Beneath  the  tripping  of  her  rosy  feet. 

She  motioned  him,  the  gray-haired  mariner, 
To  drink  the  sparkling  goblet  that  she  gave 


1 6  Ponce  de  Leon. 

Out  of  the  fountain  of  undying  youth; 
But  ere  his  lips  could  quaff  the  limpid  stream, 
He  woke  to  find  it  vanished  from  his  sight, 
To  find  his  anxious  comrades  gathered  round, 
Awaked  and  startled  by  his  dreamful  sighs; 
To  see,  with  weary  eyes,  the  same  old  world, 
And  the  old  story  of  its  tears  and  toils. 

III. 

Resplendent  morning,  flushed  and  passionate, 
With  eyes  a-sparkle  and  with  cheeks  aflame, 
Sinks  in  the  white  arms  of  the  panting  day; 
And  like  a  young  bride  on  her  nuptial  night, 
When  first  her  lover  sees  her  virgin  breast, 
Averts  her  eyes  beneath  his  burning  gaze, 
Then  leaps  with  fervor  on  his  blazing  heart, 
Consumed  within  the  white  heat  of  his  love, 
Its  swoonful  blisses  and  delirious  joys. 

Along  the  sandy  coast  of  Florida 

The  proud  palmettos  lift  their  serried  spears, 

The  giant  grapevines  twist  their  snaky  arms 

In  monstrous  coils  around  the  live  oak  limbs; 

The  verdant  creepers  cling  to  rotten  trunks, 

With  crimson-clustered  blossoms  thrusting  forth, 

Like  bloody  fingers  of  a  murderer's  hand. 

The  wondrous  wildwoods  with  their  emerald  shades 

Are  like  the  forests  under  ocean  waves, 

Where  mellow  amber  blossoms  in  jasmine  sprays, 

Where  dogwood  blossoms  hang  like  lustrous  pearls, 


Ponce  de  Leon.  17 

And  red  buds  glimmer  like  a  coral  grove; 
Where  dead  trees  lie  like  masts  of  sunken  ships, 
And     humming-birds    flit    through     the    verdant 

gloom, 
Like  jeweled  fishes  flashing  golden  fins. 

The  red  flamingoes  throng  the  sandy  coast, 
Like  splashes  of  a  bloody  sunset  sky; 
The  snow-white  pelican,  the  awkward  crane, 
Tread  with  the  spoon-bill  in  the  shallow  bay; 
While  far  above,  a  secret  evermore, 
The  ancient  sacred  ibis  floats  along. 

All  day  they  sail  along  the  yellow  coast; 
All  day  they  gaze  upon  the  wondrous  woods; 
All  day  they  watch  the  red  flamingoes  flame, 
And  see  the  ibis  circling  through  the  skies. 
But  still  they  see  no  face  of  living  man, 
No  cheerful  cottage  and  no  curling  smoke, 
As  though  the  land  were  Adam's  paradise 
Where  nevermore  his  banished  sons  shall  tread. 


And  now  the  evening,  like  a  Bacchanal, 
In  all  the  splendor  of  her  streaming  hair, 
In  all  the  flush  of  madness  jubilant, 
Arrayed  in  purple  and  in  cloth  of  gold, 
Lifts  in  the  skies  her  chalice  crystalline 
And  splashes  all  the  clouds  with  rosy  wines, 
Tingling  and  trembling  with  voluptuous  thrills, 


1 8  Ponce  de  Leon. 

Amid  her  throngs  of  frenzied  revelers, 
Till  all  the  spectral  shadows  of  the  night, 
Like  stealthy  foemen  at  some  ancient  feast, 
Creep  in  with  daggers  of  the  flashing  stars 
And  slay  them  in  the  blossom  of  their  bliss. 

Again  the  moonrise  in  the  mystic  night, 
Again  the  glimmer  of  the  silent  stars, 
Again  the  secrets  never  to  be  told, 
Again  the  lonely  vigil  in  the  gloom! 

Once  more  the  grey-haired  sailor  stands  alone, 

Beneath  the  grey  sails  of  his  sea- worn  ship; 

Once  more  he  dreams  of  scenes  in  perished  years, 

Of  faces  in  the  tomb  of  long  ago. 

He  wanders  through  the  fields  that  once  he  trod, 

In  -blithesome  boyhood,  far  away  in  Spain; 

He  sees  the  village  just  beneath  the  hill, 

He  sees  the  vineyards  and  the  cottages, 

He  sees  the  peasants  toiling  in  the  fields; 

The  birds  are  singing  as  in  days  of  old, 

The  bees  are  booming  in  the  clover  blooms 

Just  as  they  boomed  around  him  when  a  boy. 

He  hears  the  children  laughing  in  the  lanes, 

And  almost  thinks  he  hears  them  call  his  name, 

And  beg  him  join  them  in  their  happy  play. 

He  sees  the  foolish  lovers  wooing  still 

Beneath  the  peach-blooms,  while  the  mild-eyed  dove 

Peeps  at  them  as  she  hovers  in  her  nest. 

He  sees  the  old  spring  with  its  little  brook 


Ponce  de  Leon.  19 

In  which  he  waded  when  a  bare-foot  boy; 
Here  stands  the  old  stile  where  he  met  her  first; 
Here  lies  the  lane  where  first  he  told  his  love, 
The  ancient  oak  that  saw  him  press  her  hand, 
And  saw  him  steal  his  first  kiss  from  her  lips, — 
Then  the  old  gate  that  saw  their  fond  farewell. 

But  all  the  dear  young  faces  that  he  knew, 
Are  sleeping  yonder  on  the  lonesome  hill; 
All, — all  but  one!  his  heart  can  not  forget 
Yon  poor  old  woman  tottering  up  the  road, 
With  slouching  bonnet  and  with  wooden  shoes, 
Bent  almost  double  o'er  a  knotty  stick, 
Bearing  a  basket  with  a  few  scant  herbs, 
Gathered  together  for  her  meagre  meal. 
Too  well  his  heart  remembers,  long  ago, 
This  poor  old  crone  was  young  and  beautiful, 
Though  now  all  grizzled,  gaunt  and  full  of  pains, 
A  ruined  relic,  scorned  by  all  the  world, 
That  only  loves  the  young  and  gay  and  fair; 
Forgotten  by  them  all  save  one  old  man 
In  this  lone  world,  a  thousand  leagues  away! 

He  knew  that  soon  for  her  the  end  would  come, 
Thus  toiling  feebly  as  the  days  went  by. 
' '  My  God,  my  God !  "  he  faltered  through  his  tears, 
' (  Grant  me  the  power  to  find  the  magic  fount, 
That  I  may  save  her,  make  her  young  again, 
Ere  all  my  toils  may  be  too  late,  too  late ! ' ' 


2O  Ponce  de  Leon. 

IV. 

DAY  after  day  they  sailed  along  the  coast, 
Until  they  reached  a  river,  deep  and  broad. 
Day  after  day  they  sailed  its  green  expanse, 
Seeking  with  sorrow  for  the  Fount  of  Youth. 

Day  after  day  comes  laughing  in  the  east, 
Day  after  day  lies  bleeding  in  the  west; 
Day  after  day  hope  blossoms  in  their  hearts, 
Day  after  day  their  hopes  are  doomed  to  die. 

But  the  great  river  narrowed  in  their  course, 
Or  spread  its  waters  into  shallow  bays, 
Until  at  last  they  reached  a  tangled  pass, 
Where  the  good  ship  could  sail  no  further  south. 
The  broad  lush  lily  pads,  with  myriad  blooms, 
Like  snares  of  Sirens  meshing  peerless  pearls, 
Threw  mazy  network  all  around  the  prow: 
The  cypress  and  the  live-oak  threw  their  limbs 
Like  giant  arms  to  bar  them  on  their  way; 
The  grapevines  and  the  creepers  joined  above 
And  like  a  cobweb  tangled  in  the  mast; 
The  scaly  alligators  on  the  logs 
Were  strewn  across  the  islands  and  the  bays 
Like  hideous  dragons  of  the  days  of  old, 
Guarding  the  gold  fruit  of  Hesperides. 

The  heron,  standing  stiffly,  looking  wise, 
With  one  foot  resting  in  the  water  cress, 
Seemed  mocking  at  him  with  a  lazy  leer; 


Ponce  de  Leon.  21 

The  gay  kingfisher,  garbed  in  gaudy  robes, 
Seemed  smiling  at  him  and  his  foolish  quest; 
The  crane  flew  o'  er  him  on  her  spectral  wings 
Like  a  white  ghost  of  dead  and  buried  years; 
The  radiant  redbird  paused  amid  his  flight, 
To  see  the  stranger  in  this  western  world. 
Lost  in  the  mazes  of  his  deep  despair, 
The  gray-haired  sailor  heeded  none  of  them, 
Save  a  sweet  mock-bird  in  magnolia  boughs, 
Whose  soft  songs  soothed  his  bleeding  heart  like 
balm. 

Then  with  a  faltering  voice  he  gave  command 
To  turn  the  vessel  northward  in  return, 
Though  like  a  bird  hemmed  in  an  iron  cage 
His  soul  still  beating  at  its  prison  bars, 
Was  raging  at  its  fetters  and  its  chains, 
And  longing  to  pursue  its  visions  still. 

That  night  he  pondered  long  unto  himself, 

Upon  the  sphinx-like  riddle,  Life  and  Death. 

' '  Alas !  "  he  murmured,  ' '  ages  fade  away, 

And  desolation  conquers  all  at  last. 

Like  mists  of  morning  nations  disappear, 

Like  leaves  of  autumn  kingdoms  quiver  by. 

As  Egypt  perished  with  her  hoary  kings, 

As  gray  Assyria  saw  her  columns  fall, 

So  all  our  empires,  with  their  myriad  souls, 

Shall  be  the  same  old  idle  story  still; 

And  countless  kingdoms  that  shall  follow  them, 


22  Ponce  de  Leon. 

Like  them  shall  vanish  in  the  same  old  tomb. 
Age  follows  age,  till  earth  is  shriveled  up, 
For  all  the  universe  is  but  a  grave. 
Why  live,  if  youth  shall  ever  end  in  age  ? 
If  death  shall  ever  triumph  over  life  ? 
What  mean  our  petty  triumphs  and  our  toils 
If  all  are  offerings  at  the  shrine  of  death  ? 
Could  I  but  find  the  blessed  fount  of  youth, 
I  would  be  greater  than  the  kings  of  earth, 
Than  all  immortal  poets  of  the  past, 
Than  all  the  prophets  and  the  priests  of  God. 
But  nevermore  my  hopes  shall  come  to  pass; 
So  all  the  world  shall  perish  with  my  dream." 

And  then  in  troubled  sleep  he  treads  again 
His  boyhood  pathways,  far  away  in  Spain; 
Once  more  he  wanders  by  the  mossy  brook, 
Once  more  he  sees  the  windmill  on  the  height; 
Once  more  he  treads  the  orchards,  all  abloom 
With  crimson  clover  and  with  pearly  peach; 
Once  more  he  sees  the  village,  old  and  quaint, 
Through  whose  dull  streets  he  trod  so  long  ago, 
Before  he  yearned  to  roam  around  the  world, 
And  seek  his  fortune  in  the  courts  and  camps  ; 
Once  more  he  sees  the  house  where  he  was  born, 
And  then,  alas!  the  graveyard  on  the  hill. 

But  soon  he  sees,  with  looks  of  deep  dismay, 
A  throng  of  peasants  treading  up  the  hill, 
Poor,  simple  creatures,  dressed  in  coarsest  garb, 


Ponce  de  Leon.  23 

With  threadbare  doublets  and  with  wooden  shoes. 
Before  them  walks  an  ancient  barefoot  friar, 
With  eyes  downcast  upon  a  crucifix; 
Then  four  stout  yeomen  follow  close  behind, 
And  bear  a  box-like  coffin,  rough  and  rude, 
Wherein  he  sees  a  woman's  furrowed  face; 
Her  withered  hands  are  folded  on  her  breast, 
Her  wrinkled  eyelids  now  forever  closed. 
But  no  one  weeps  above  her  pallid  corpse 
And  no  one  sighs  to  see  her  pass  away 
Save  this  old  man,  far  in  a  western  world, 
Whose  heart  is  buried  in  her  humble  grave. 

v. 

THE  days  dragged  on,  and  Ponce  de  Leon  strove, 
With  patient  hands  to  conquer  Florida; 
To  build  a  city  and  to  till  the  fields, 
And  make  a  goodly  province  for  his  king. 

His  feet  were  worn,  yet  he  had  found  no  rest; 

His  hands  were  feeble,  yet  had  toiled  in  vain; 

His  eyes  were  dim,  yet  he  had  never  seen 

The  mystic  marvels  of  the  magic  fount. 

All  hope  had  vanished  from  his  withered  heart, 

Yet  still  he  lived,  as  in  a  weary  dream; 

But  life,  which  long  had  kept  awake  his  woes, 

Was  soon  to  bring  him  to  the  bitter  end, 

To  tread  the  hideous  border-land  of  death, 

Where  dark  despair  eclipses  every  star. 


24  Ponce  de  Leon. 

One  cloudless  day,  when  pensive  evening  pined 

Above  the  tropic  forests  of  the  west, 

After  a  bloody  battle  bravely  won 

Against  the  crafty  Indians  of  the  land, — 

Won  in  a  manner  worthy  of  the  man 

Who  plucked  the  crimson  flower  of  his  fame 

Not  on  a  carpet,  but  a  bloody  field, — 

He  wandered  from  the  outskirts  of  his  camp, 

And  sat  beside  the  margin  of  a  pool: 

A  little  pool  it  was,  fed  by  a  brook, 

That  twisted  like  a  serpent  through  the  grass, 

Half  choked  with  reeds  and  rushes  and  with  mint. 

The  lakelet  was  so  clear  that  one  might  see 

Its  sandy  bottom,  fathoms  five  below, 

And  watch  the  writhing  fishes  wave  their  fins, 

With  shining  scales,  and  twirling,  twisting  tails, 

And  gaping  jaws  and  huge  and  glassy  eyes, 

Like  grotesque  phantoms  in  a  haunted  land. 

The  swallows  dipped  amid  the  dewy  spray, 

The  heron  stood  amid  the  water  weeds 

And  watched  the  gray  coot  diving  in  the  depths, 

The  blue-jay  in  a  scaly  sycamore 

Cried  as  she  saw  a  black  snake  slide  below ; 

The    staid     woodpecker    crowned    with    crimson 

plumes 

Climbed  slowly  up  an  oak-tree's  aged  trunk. 
The  brown  thrush  fluttered  to  her  cosy  nest, 
Where,  like  a  rougish  gypsy  maiden's  eyes, 
The  round  blackberries,  gemmed  with  diamond 

dew, 


Ponce  de  Leon.  25 

Seemed  peeping  at  her  as  she  sank  to  rest. 
An  oriole,  arrayed  in  royal  robes, 
Shown  with  the  mingled  glory  and  the  gloom 
Of  orange  sunrise  and  of  sable  night. 

Long  sat  he  there,  and  dreamed  of  other  days, 
Till  sombre  twilight  trod  the  forest  depths, 
Draped  all  the  splendor  of  the  sunset  skies 
And  robed  the  woods  in  funeral  garb  of  gray. 

But  with  the  death  of  that  eventful  day, 
The  gray-haired  sailor  was  to  met  his  doom; 
For  in  the  shades  a  stealthy  foeman  crept, 
Nearer  and  nearer,  with  a  sharpened  spear. 

Then  all  at  once  the  Indian  leaped  in  view, 
And  pierced  him  through  his  armor  with  the  spear; 
The  old  man  struck  the  savage  to  the  ground, 
And  slew  him  with  his  ever-trusty  sword. 

He  called  his  comrades,  in  the  camp  near  by, 

Who  bore  him  in  a  litter  to  the  ship, 

But  sought  in  vain  to  cure  his  mortal  wound. 

Scarce  could  he  speak;    yet  gathered  strength  at 

last, 

To  bid  them  turn  to  Cuba,  on  the  morn; 
So  they  obeyed  him,  trimmed  the  ready  sails, 
To  bear  him  southward,  there  to  see  him  die. 


26  Ponce  de  Leon. 

But  ere  he  left,  there  came  a  zealous  priest 
To  breathe  the  gospel  in  his  deafened  ears, 
And  point  its  pathway  to  his  fading  eyes; 
He  held  the  crucifix  where  one  might  see 
The  writhing  Christ  nailed  to  the  cruel  tree. 

"  O,  Ponce  de  Leon,"  spake  he  solemnly, 

"  Long   hast   thou  searched  to  find  the  fount  of 

youth, 

But  seen  thy  searches  evermore  in  vain : 
And   thou   hast   found   that   drink  where'er  thou 

wilt, 

Thy  thirst  returns  and  thou  must  drink  again  ; 
Yet,  as  thou  searchest,  still  thou  growest  old, 
And  as  thou  seekest  thou  shalt  surely  die. 
But,  hapless  man,  the  fountain  shall  be  found, 
And  I  shall  show  it  to  thy  fading  eyes: 
For  if  thou  drinkest  of  the  well  of  Christ, 
Thy  thirst  shall  pass  away  forevermore, 
And  drinking  of  that  well  thy  youth  returns, 
And  thou  shalt  dwell  in  palmy  Paradise, 
Forever  happy  and  forever  young. ' ' 

But  Ponce  de  Leon  beckoned  him  away, 

And  turned  his  dim  eyes  from  the  crucifix. 

"  Oh,  thou  hast  been  deceived,"  the  priest  replied, 

"  But  God  will  keep  His  promises  to  thee." 

Still  Ponce  de  Leon  beckoned  him  away, 
And  still  refused  to  see  the  crucifix. 


Ponce  de  Leon.  27 

" '  Unhappy  man, ' '  the  priest  replied  again, 
* '  Like  mildew  on  thy  hopes  and  happiness, 
Descends  the  curse  of  infidelity, 
Which  holds  the  scepter  in  the  shades  below, 
Where  demons  laugh  to  see  one  flee  from  God. 
Come  back,  come  back !     It  is  not  yet  too  late 
To  reach  the  portals  of  thy  Father's  home, 
Where  saints  and  seraphs  with  their  starry  crowns, 
Bask  in  the  sunlight  of  the  smile  of  God, 
And  wait  to  welcome  thee  on  thy  return 
With  sounds  triumphant  like  the  swelling  sea. 
Look  up  to  Heaven!  seest  thou  no  signal  there, 
No  smile  of  seraph,  and  no  helping  hand  ? 
Seest  thou  no  torch  to  guide  thee  in  the  gloom  ? 
Seest  thou  no  golden  city,  far  away  ? 
Behold  the  Lamb  of  God,  and  thou  shalt  live! 
Cry  out  to  Christ,  and  He  shall  comfort  thee! " 

The  dying  warrior  turned  his  haggard  face: 
First  tried  to  speak,  then  feebly  shook  his  head, 
As  if  to  say  "No!  I  shall  hope  no  more: 
All,  all  are  fables;  I  will  not  believe: 
For  you  deceive  me  as  the  rest  have  done. ' ' 

The  priest  fled  horrified,  and  left  him  there, 
To  die  the  death  of  those  who  turn  from  God. 

The  sails  were  spread,  the  harbor  soon  was  cleared, 
The  vessel  glided  far  away  at  sea. 
The  old  priest  watched  it,  through  his   blinding 
tears, 


28  Ponce  de  Leon. 

Till  the  gray  sails  had  faded  from  the  skies; 
A  ship  of  death,  that  bore  one  to  his  tomb: 
A  ship  of  death,  doomed  by  the  curse  of  God! 


Still  beams  the  moon  on  Andalusian  hills, 

As  in  the  dead  years  of  the  long  ago 

When  Ponce  de  Leon  and  the  maid  he  loved 

In  blissful  silence  heard  each  other's  hearts 

Beating  together  with  a  bounding  bliss, 

And  told  each  other  with  their  eager  eyes 

The  sweet  old  story  that  shall  ever  live 

When  kings  and  queens  have  crumbled  in  the  clay,, 

And  all  the  empires  of  the  earth  are  dust. 

The  moonbeams  falter  on  her  grassy  grave, 
Upon  a  lone  hill,  far  away  in  Spain, 
While  he  is  sleeping  in  his  sepulchre 
Beyond  the  oceans  of  the  western  world. 
The  foolish  lovers,  in  their  thoughtless  bliss, 
Still  woo  each  other  as  they  tread  the  fields 
Where  those  two  lovers,  centuries  ago, 
First  told  their  passion  to  each  other's  eyes. 

Still  shines  the  sun  in  skies  of  Florida, 

With  all  the  glory  of  the  yester-years, 

When  Ponce  de  Leon  trod  her  wondrous  woods* 

To  find  the  fountain  of  immortal  youth. 

Another  people  rules  her  palmy  plains, 

Another  nation,  with  another  tonerie: 


Ponce  de  Leon.  29 

Yet  never  has  the  mystic  marvel  of  the  fount 
Arisen  before  the  eyes  of  mortal  man. 

Like  him,  we  long  to  see  its  crystal  waves, 
When  old  age,  like  November,  chills  the  skies, 
And  all  our  dead  hopes,  like  her  withered  leaves, 
Are  falling  at  the  coming  of  the  night. 
Like  him,  we  long  to  see  our  youth  again 
Bring  back  the  withered  roses  of  the  past, 
The  mirth  of  May,  and  joys  of  jeweled  June, 
When  April  buds  are  all  forever  dead, 
And  suns  of  summer  have  forever  set. 
Like  him,  we  see  our  toils  are  all  in  vain: 
Like  him  we  see  that  we  are  growing  gray: 
We  seek  forever,  and  we  never  find, 
And  as  we  seek  it,  we  shall  surely  die. 


NARCISSUS, 
i. 

THE  morning  flamed  above  the  Doric  hills 
In  all  the  joyous  glory  of  her  youth, 
As  though  her  roses  would  be  red  forever, 
And  deck  the  wide  earth  with  unfading  bloom. 
Her  sparkling  eyes  dimmed  all  the  night's  wart 

stars, 

Her  red  cheeks  tinged  the  clouds  with  crimson  fire,. 
While  silvery  arrows  from  her  worlds  of  light 
Dispersed  the  grim  shades  from  the  verdant  woods. 
The  lithe  stag  started  from  his  grassy  couch 
And    shook    the   dew-drops   from   his   branching 

horns, 

The  falcon  spread  his  light  wings  to  the  winds 
And  darted  upward  like  a  sharpened  spear; 
The  herdsman  led  his  oxen  to  the  brook, 
Whose  wavelets  wondered  at  the  great  round  eyes£ 
Then  merry  laughter  from  the  roguish  fauns 
Resounded  keenly  through  the  leafy  dells; 
But  louder  than  them  all,  some  piping  sprite 
Made  liquid  music  with  the  warbling  birds. 
But  soon  Narcissus  left  his  flowery  couch, 
Narcissus,  ever  young  and  beautiful ! 
And  there  amid  resplendent  beams  of  morn, 


Narcissus.  31 

Amid  the  odorous  blossoms  soft  and  sweet, 
And  wildly  graceful  spirits  of  the  woods, 
Narcissus  shone  the  wonder  of  them  all. 
No  red  deer's  skin,  no  tawny  lion's  hide, 
No  woven  fabric  round  his  shoulders  hung, 
For  young  Narcissus  roamed  in  beauty  nude; 
His  soft  round  limbs,  fair  as  a  lily's  buds, 
Were  never  hidden  in  a  useless  garb. 

The  flush  of  boyhood  still  adorned  his  face, 
A  childish  beauty  budding  into  youth; 
He  scampered  nimbly  like  a  half-grown  god, 
With  shrill  songs  varying  to  a  deepening  bass. 
Sweet  little  dimples  flitted  round  his  mouth, 
His  curving  arms  were  lovely  as  a  babe's, 
His  little  feet  like   frail  and  tinted  shells, 
With  tiny  peeping  toes  like  purest  pearls. 
His  roguish  eyes  bent  downward  timidly, 
As  though  ashamed  to  see  his  nakedness; 
His  golden  ringlets  hung  upon  his  breast, 
Too  short  to  hide  his  sweet  enchanting  charms. 

The  nymphs  beheld  him  in  his  boyish  grace, 
Enraptured  by  his  rounded,  naked  limbs, 
Drinking  his  beauty  like  some  wondrous  wine, 
That  makes  the  blood  burst  into  flowers  of  flame, 
Their  bosoms  madly  throbbing,  eyes  afire, 
Breath  wildly  panting  in  an  eager  love, 
So  that  they  longed  to  clasp  him  in  their  arms 
Forever  in  delirious  blissful  swoons. 


32  Narcissus. 

And  often  all  day  would  they  follow  him, 
Untiring,  through  the  distant  woods  and  fields; 
They'd  stroll  beside  him,  call  him  by  pet  names, 
Clasp  his  soft  cheeks  and  stroke  his  curly  hair. 
Oft  would  they  leap  upon  him  from  the  ferns, 
And  kiss  his  sweet  lips  o'  er  and  o'  er  again, 
Or  madly  beg  him  for  one  word  of  love, 
Or  one  embrace  to  give  them  in  return. 
The  pretty  boy,  half  angered,  like  a  child, 
Would  pout,  then  laugh,  half  relishing  their  love. 

But  often,  wearied  of  their  close  pursuit, 
He  longed  to  wander  lone  and  unharassed; 
In  vain,  for  everywhere  the  roguish  spies 
Would  watch  his  path  and  haunt  his  flying  feet. 
Through   meadows,  fields,  and   forests  deep   and 

dark, 

Still  grottoes,  lonely  dells,  high  mountain- tops, 
By  winding  rivers,  lily-covered  lakes, 
He  sought  in  vain  for  peaceful  solitude. 

Among  the  nymphs  who  thus  would  follow  him, 
Poor  Echo  vexed  him  more  than  all  the  rest; 
And  while  his  cunning  thwarted  other  eyes, 
This  maiden  always  wandered  at  his  side. 
Full  oft  when  gathering  violets  in  the  dells, 
And  thinking  him  unseen,  he'd  quickly  start 
To  feel  a  burning  kiss  upon  his  lips, 
And  see  her  lithe  form  swiftly  vanishing; 
Full  oft,  beneath  some  hoary  oak's  green  boughs, 


Narcissus.  33 

His  tired  head  resting  on  a  bank  of  moss, 
While  sleep  was  weaving  meshes  round  his  eyes, 
Would  hear  wild  words  of  deep  despairing  love, 
Sad,  soulful  sighs,  with  fend  reproaches  breathed, 
And  waking,  there  behold  two  great  dark  eyes 
Bent  o'er  him,  and  a  passion-heaving  breast 
His  pillow,  that  had  first  been  mossy  earth. 

Again,  while  wandering  through  the  caverned  hills, 
Amid  the  shades  would  Echo  glide  along, 
Clasp  his  soft  hands  within  her  fingers  wan, 
The  hot  tears  trickling  down  her  wasted  cheeks, 
And  sob  and  murmur  of  his  cruelty. 

A  curse  had  long  been  laid  on  Echo's  head 
By  jealous  Here,  heartless  in  her  hate. 
For  Echo  often  had  assisted  Zeus 
In  hiding  amorous  sins  from  Here's  eye, 
Till  being  seized  at  last,  confessed  her  guilt, 
And  felt  the  fury  of  the  queen  of  heaven. 
Perfidious  Zeus  refused  the  nymph  to  shield; 
So  she  was  banished  from  the  god' s  abode, 
To  wander  lonely  through  the  waste  of  Earth, 
Where  rove  swift-fated  mortals  to  the  grave, 
And  Autumn  blights  the  glory  of  the  year; 
To  pine  amid  the  solemn  wilderness, 
And  long  for  high  Olympus,  lost  forever. 

And  Echo  was  not  fair  or  beautiful, 

But  plainest,  darkest  of  the  woodland  nymphs; 


34  Narcissus. 

Her  form  had  faded  to  a  flitting  shade, 

Her  voice  had  pined  into  a  mournful  cry. 

Her  eyes  were  large,  dark  as  a  cavern's  gloom, 

Her  tresses  like  the  dusky  clouds  of  night; 

Her  face  was  like  a  specter,  and  her  sighs 

Like  bitter  moaning  of  the  winter  winds. 

Each  word  that  reached  her  would  her  tongue  repeat, 

For  so  the  high  gods  cursed  her  for  her  sins. 

She  loved  the  shades,  the  solemn  solitudes, 

The  lonely  grottoes  and  steep  mountain  sides; 

So  while  she  haunted  close  Narcissus'  path, 

She  dared  not  show  her  visage  openly, 

But  stole  behind  him  ever  stealthily, 

And  vanished  when  he  turned  to  speak  reproach, 

Or,  when  he  sat,  would  hide  in  thickets  near, 

And  gaze  upon  him  from  the  sullen  shades. 

Sometimes  Narcissus,  out  of  cruel  spite, 
Would  wound  her  heart  with  stinging  jealousy 
When  smiling  on  some  other  rival  nymph, 
Who  madly  kissed  or  fondly  folded  him. 
Her  dark  eyes  glittered  with  a  blasting  woe 
To  see  him  laughing  on  a  swelling  breast, 
Some  nymph  with  round  arms  close  embracing  him 
And  drinking  in  his  lovely  boyish  charms. 
But  oft  Narcissus  scorned  the  charms  of  all, 
And  on  this  morning  shunned  each  maiden's  face. 


Narcissus.  35 

II. 

The  first  who  met  him  as  he  tripped  along 

Was  one  who  hunted  there  with  Artemis, 

A  stately  maid  with  waving  ebon  hair, 

With  cheeks  as  crimson  as  the  popy's  bloom, 

With  dark  and  wondrous  splendor-streaming  eyes, 

And  queenly  brow  of  softest  olive  hue; 

She  seemed  like  dusky  twilight,  gemmed  with  stars 

And  sprinkled  by  the  bleeding  heart  of  day. 

Her  pure  white  feet  with  golden  sandals  decked 

Were  stainless  and  as  soft  as  Eros'  wings; 

Her  green  cloak  waving  in  the  morning  wind 

Betrayed  a  rounded  bosom  like  a  swan. 

Upon  her  back  a  bow  and  quiver  hung, 

Within  her  hand  a  sharp  and  shining  spear. 

<(  Is  this  Narcissus  ?  "  said  she,  with  a  smile; 

''I've  seen  thee  in  these  hills  but  once  before; 

Yet  one  so  beautiful  no  eye  forgets, 

And  so  my  memory  can  not  be  at  fault. 

But  hark,  my  pretty  boy,  a  face  like  thine 

Will  often  carry  with  it  deep  despair: 

The  nymphs  whose  love  is  scorned  are  plotting  now 

To  have  revenge  upon  thee.     This  I  know. 

For  on  Olympus  only  yester-eve 

I  saw  a  throng  of  these  with  Nemesis, 

The  stern-browed  spirit,  feared  of  gods  and  men. 

Whose  only  joy  is  marring  lives  like  thine. 

I  heard  them  murmur  at  thy  cruelty, 

Then  beg  dark  Nemesis  to  curse  thee,  boy,  • 


36  Narcissus. 

And  she,  I  think,  assented.     Watch  them  well, 
For  much  I  fear  some  evil  day  will  come. ' ' 

*  *  Was  Echo  there  ?     'Tis  like  her  spiteful  way; 

I  always  hated  her,  and  always  shall. ' ' 

4 '  Thou  wrong'  st  her,  foolish  boy ;  she  was  not  there, 

She  long  ago  was  driven  from  on  high. 

I  can  not  tell  thee  more,  for  hark,  oh,  hark! 

The  deep-mouthed  hounds  are  baying  through  the 

woods, 

In  hot  pursuit  of  some  affrighted  stag. 
Ye  gods !     My  heart  leaps  in  exulting  joy, 
And  all  my  veins  are  tingling  for  the  chase: 
Farewell,  I  follow  swiftly  to  the  hunt." 

"  What  thanks,  fair  goddess,  shall  I  offer  thee?  — 
But  yet,  alas!  I  have  no  gift  of  worth." 

"  A  gift,  thou  foolish  boy  ?     Give  me  a  kiss; 
For  kisses  from  a  young  man's  amorous  mouth 
Will  buy  from  woman  more  than  gems  and  gold. 
Another  kiss!     Another!     Clasp  again! 
Just  one  more  kiss,  Narcissus,  then  I  go! 
My  mistress  would  reproach  me  for  this  act, 
But  for  its  joy  I'd  bear  her  frown  forever. 
Beware,  O  youth.     Echo  thou  needst  not  fear; 
She  loves  thee  as  the  banished  god  loves  heaven, 
But  would  not  harm  thee  to  regain  her  throne. ' ' 

Narcissus  stood  stunned  with  a  curdling  fear. 
The  smile  died  on  his  quivering,  ashen  lips, 


Narcissus.  37 

His  heart  grew  numb,  his  youthful  blood  grew  cold, 
"  Why  should  they  wish  to  harm  me  ?  "  muttered 

he; 

' '  Am  I  not  free  to  turn  away  from  them  ? 
Shall  I  be  blamed  because  I  love  them  not  ? 
Shall  I  be  blamed  because  they  pine  for  me  ?  " 

Soon  turned  he  on  his  heels,  and  musing  went 

Along  the  brook,  then  sat  beneath  an  elm. 

He  paused  a  while,  then,  growing  restless,  turned 

And  lay  upon  his  back,  while  his  fair  locks 

Were  pillowed  on  a  bank  of  feathery  ferns. 

But  then  the  sun,  arising  high  in  heaven, 

Sent  through  the  parted  boughs  a  tiny  beam 

That  fell  upon  his  eyes  and  made  him  wince, 

So  that  he  leaped  up,  restless  and  annoyed. 

Soon  sitting  down  again,  he  dipt  his  feet 

Within  the  crystal  waters  just  below, — 

Those   beauteous   feet,   more   soft  and  sweet  and 

white 

Than  all  the  spotless  water-lilies  there. 
The  wavelets  kissed  their  blue  veins  delicate, 
And  fondled  them,  and  babbled  petting  sounds, 
While  silvery  minnows,  growing  bold  at  last, 
Began  to  nibble  at  the  tiny  toes, 
Which  tingled  till  they  blushed  like  rose-buds  pink, 
When  he,  to  rout  the  minnows,  shook  his  foot, 
Splashing  the  water  into  foaming  spray, 
And  sent  them  scampering  up  the  brook  in  fright, 
To  peep  back  at  him  through  the  water-cress, 
And  wonder  at  his  roguish,  ringing  laugh. 


38  Narcissus. 

He  gazed  upon  his  image  in  the  brook, 

And  marveled  at  his  own  enchanting  charms; 

His  cheeks  like  ruby  wines,  blue  eyes,  bright  hair, 

The  rounded,  flower-like  beauty  of  his  form. 

He  blushed  to  see  his  utter  nakedness 

And  that  which  mortals  seek  to  hide  from  sight, 

But  felt  a  boyish  pride  and  secret  joy 

To  feel  and  see  his  manhood  drawing  near. 

He  knew  no  maiden  could  resist  his  beauty, 

And  in  his  heart  exulted  at  the  thought. 

"I'll  scorn  them  all,"  he  said  unto  himsell, 

* '  And  drive  them  mad  to  get  one  stingy  smile. 

I'll  rule  them,  chained  before  me  by  thier  love, 

And  they  shall  long  in  vain  to  kiss  my  feet." 

Then  turning  round,  he  saw  Leona  there, 

With  jealous  passion  burning  in  her  eyes; 

For  much  she  craved  the  sweetness  of  his  charms, 

But  hated  him  because  his  heart  was  cold. 

"  Leona!  "  faltered  he;  "  art  spying  still  ? 
I  am  aweary  of  thy  hateful  eyes. ' ' 
"Narcissus!"  cried  she,    quickly,  "  I  am  mad, — 
Mad  with  fierce  love  and  flaming  jealousy. 
Beware!     Beware!     lest  thou   shouldst  force   my 

soul 
To  bring  destruction  on  thy  helpless  head. ' ' 

* '  Leona,  I  defy  thy  silly  threats. 

I  am  the  son  of  water-god  and  nymph: 


Narcissus.  39 

Free  I  was  born,  and  free  will  ever  be. 

I  am  immortal ;  what  have  I  to  fear  ? 

For  Zeus  himself  can  never  take  my  life, 

And  thou  art  but  a  weak  and  wandering  sprite. '  * 

* '  I  know,  Narcissus,  thou  couldst  never  die, 
But,  selfish  creature,  I  may  curse  thee  still; 
I  may  call  down  such  anguish  and  despair 
That  life  itself  would  be  an  agony. 
Be  mine,  Narcissus!  hearken  to  my  prayer! 
Be  mine,  or  I  will  curse  thee  and  myself ! ' ' 

''Begone!     Begone!"  he  cried,  impatiently, 

And  turned  his  eyes  in  anger  from  her  face, 

Looking  towards  the  woods  beyond  the  brook. 

A  deadly  silence  seemed  to  shroud  the  place, 

And  all  the  forest  huddled  close  with  fear. 

He  turned  around;  Leona's  face  had  fled, 

But  oh,  the  spectre  there  before  his  eyes! 

For  just  a  pace  beyond  him  stood  a  shape 

Whose  awful  presence  curdled  all  his  blood. 

It  was  a  woman  with  a  sweeping  robe 

That  shrouded  her  in  ghastly  spectral  folds. 

In  her  right  hand  she  held  a  scorpion  whip, 

And  in  her  left  a  leafy  branch  of  ash. 

Her  face  was  livid,  pale,  and  pinched  and  wan, 

With  burning  eyes  beneath  her  haggard  brows, 

Like  fiery  coals  in  gray  volcanic  cones. 

He  could  not  move,  as  though  his  limbs  were  stone, 

His  brow   was  damp  with  cold   and  clammy  dews. 


40  Narcissus. 

She  gazed  upon  him  sternly;  then  she  said, 
' '  Thyself  shalt  bring  a  curse  upon  thyself. 
He  who  loves  not  another  loves  himself, 
And  he  shall  crave  in  vain  to  ease  his  soul; 
True  love  drinks  life-blood  from  another  heart, 
But  selfish  love  doth  gnaw   upon  his  own. 
Farewell!  thy   choice  is  made,  and   thou  shalt  find 
In  loving  self  thou  graspest  at  a  shade." 

in. 

She  glided  from  him  like  a  ghost  of  night, 

And  glimmered  dimly  through  the  branching  boughs 

Till  lost  to  sight  amid  the  forest  gloom. 

Narcissus  shivered,  for  the  breeze  had  chilled, 
And   trembling   birds  for  fear  had  ceased  to  sing. 
The  nymphs,  aroused,  had  fled  before  her  face. 
The  startled,  shuddering  trees  with  horror  moaned,. 
Like  huddled  cattle,  when,  on  tainted  air, 
With  horns  erect,  eyes  starting,  mad  with  fear, 
And  lowing,  groaning  deep  and  piteously, 
From  altar  stones  they  smell  their  comrade's  blood. 

Again  he  turned  and  gazed  into  the  brook, 
And  saw  himself  reflected  in  its  waves. 
Again  he  saw  his  sweet  lips,  glowing  cheeks, 
His  azure  eyes,  his  rippling  golden  hair, 
His  rounded,  dimpled  arms,  his  dainty  feet, 
And  all  the  naked  wonders  of  his  form. 
Then  what  a  world  of  wistful  agony 


Narcissus.  41 

Came  o'  er  his  soul  while  gazing  in  the  brook ! 
Oh,  how  he  loved  that  shadow  of  himself ! 
Oh,  how  he  longed  to  clasp  it  in  his  arms! 
Oh,  how  he  longed  to  kiss  its  rich  red  mouth ! 
What  eager  yearning  swayed  his  bounding  heart! 
What  flaming  passion  fired  his  leaping  blood ! 
Such  deep  desire,  such  maddening  thrills  of  love, — 
A  heaven  of  bliss,  but  just  beyond  his  reach! 
His  pulses  throbbing  wildly  to  his  head, 
O'ercame  him  like  a  fierce,  voluptuous  dream. 
He  sought  to  kiss  his  own  lips  in  dispair, 
His  own  breast  struggled  vainly  to  embrace. 
And  then  the  deep  eyes  of  the  shadow  there 
Seemed   begging  him  to  share  their    languorous 

sweets. 

Its  lips  seemed  longing  to  be  pressed  to  his, 
Its  arms  inviting  to  their  swoonful  realm. 

Filled  with  his  pain,  he  could  resist  no  more, 
But  leaped  to  clasp  the  shadow  to  his  heart. 
In  vain,  in  vain !     A  splash,  a  chilly  thrill, 
And  then  the  shadow  fled  before  his  eyes ! 
He  struggled  with  the  icy,  mantling  waves, 
Clung  to  the  bushy  bank  and  climbed  to  shore, 
But  cold  and  shivering  with  the  trickling  drops. 
Again  he  looked  upon  the  cruel  brook 
That  now  had  cursed  him  with  his  own  fair  face, 
And  once  again  he  saw  the  shidow  sweet 
Gaze  fondly  at  him  from  the  mirror  there. 
No  lover  ever  longed  to  clasp  his  love 


42  Narcissus. 

With  half  such  fervor  as  Narcissus  did. 
But  yet,  alas!  that  passion  could  be  fed 
On  rounded  beauties  of  the  loved  one's  breast, 
And  lulled  to  sleep  by  blissful  blandishments. 
All  others  who  have  loved,  with  amorous  play, 
Have  felt  at  last  their  passion  satisfied, 
Have  drunk  the  bubbling  cup  of  Cupid's  joy, 
And  cooled  the  raging  fever  of  desire. 
But  his  love  was  a  fire  with  naught  to  quench, 
A  sleepless  craving  that  had  naught  to  lull; 
He  hungered  for  a  fruit  he  could  not  taste, 
He  thirsted  for  a  cup  he  could  not  quaff. 

The  lover  who  hath  not  his  love  returned 

Hath  yet  the  sympathy  of  every  heart, 

Hath  others,  placed  like  him,  to  share  his  grief, 

And  feels  ennobled  by  his  sad,  sweet  pain. 

The  guilty  lovers,  scorned  by  all  the  world, 

Still  find  a  happier  world  within  themselves. 

But  oh,  the  horror  of  unnatural  love, 

Beyond  the  sympathy  of  every  soul! 

With  no  one  sharing  in  that  agony, 

His  own  cheeks  seared  with  tears  of  baffled  shame! 

And  then,  again,  he  felt  such  agony 

He  leaped  once  more  amid  the  brook's  cold  waves. 

Ah,  still  in  vain!     A  splash,  a  chilly  thrill, 

And  once  again  the  shape  eluded  him ! 

Then  deep  despair  fell  o'er  him  like  a  shroud, 

And  like  a  child,  lost  in  the  night,  he  sobbed. 


Narcissus.  43 

The  twilight,  like  a  priestess,  crowned  with  stars, 
Draped  Day's  fair  ringlets  in  the  veil  of  night, 
Stabbed  his  white  bosom,  lit  his  funeral  pyre, 
And  with  her  victim  died  in  crimson  flames. 
The  swallow  glided  to  his  eave  to  sleep; 
The  wild  dove  fluttered  to  her  peaceful  nest; 
The  shepherd  drove  his  thirsty  flocks  to  drink, 
Then  led  them,  bleating,  to  their  nightly  fold; 
The  new  moon,  like  a  harvest  sickle,  shone 
Through  golden  grains   and   flowers   in   fields   ot 

heaven ; 

The  gentle  shadows  gathered  in  the  woods, 
And  laid  kind  hands  on  Nature's  dreaming  soul; 
But  still  Narcissus  lay  beside  the  brook, 
Longing  to  perish  with  the  hapless  day, 
Whose  curse  had  pierced  him  with  an  agony 
Unsoothed  and  cureless  by  the  balms  of  night. 

IV. 

The  weary  days  lagged  on  like  crippled  churls, 

And  sweet  Narcissus  withered  in  despair. 

His  blue  eyes  faded  with  their  sleepless  cares, 

Like  desert  skies  with  parching  fervor  wan; 

His  crimson  lips  were  mutely  quivering 

Like  flaming  dead  leaves  in  the  autumn  winds; 

His  dimpled  cheeks  were   pinched,    and   blanched 

and  thin, 

Like  great  white  roses  fading  day  by  day; 
His  graceful  step  came  to  a  weary  halt 
Like  stiffened  lameness  of  the  wounded  doe. 


44  Narcissus. 

Hour  after  hour  he  gazed  upon  the  brook, 
And  the  big  tears  dropped  in  its  azure  waves. 
But  still  he  lived  while  ever  loathing  life, 
And  begging  heaven  to  be  allowed  to  die. 
He  gazed  in  anguish  at  the  ghostly  face 
Which  in  despair  looked  up  from  depths  below, 
With  great  eyes  mournful,  outstreched  bony  hands 
That  beckoned  to  him  like  an  aspen's  leaves. 

One  day  while  lying  on  a  bank  of  moss 

He  heard  a  rustle, — Echo's  stealthy  step. 

"  Narcissus!  "   said  she  sweetly  in  his  ear; 

He  turned  toward  her,  bursting  into  tears. 

No  longer  did  he  seek  to  flee  her  face, 

But  longed  to  mingle  bitter  tears  with  hers. 

1 '  Narcissus, ' '   said  she,    ' '  I  shall  share  thy  grief, 

My  woeful  heart  shall  ever  throb  with  thine. 

Long  have  I  watched  thee,  feared  to  come  to  thee> 

But  thou,  I  know,  wilt  never  drive  me  hence. 

Thy  hopeless  love  consumes  thine  own   sad   heart, 

And  mine  upon  another's  cast  away; 

Our  souls  are  bound  together  by  a  bond 

Of  mutual,  never-changing  misery." 

He  wept,  then  laid  his  head  upon  her  breast, 

And  soon  with  weeping  lulled  himself  to  sleep. 

What  bounding,  leaping  throbs  of  wild  delight, 
What  dreamy,  balmy,  soothing  spells  of  bliss, 
Filled  all  her  soul  while  clasping  him  to  heart! 
She  softly  smoothed  his  thin  dishevelled  locks. 


Narcissus.  45 

And  tenderly  she  stroked  his  pallid  cheeks. 

She  would  have  given  the  treasures  of  the  sea 

For  one  soft  pressure  'gainst  that  dreaming  face, 

And  all  the  gold  of  all  the  tribes  of  earth 

For  one  strong  clasping  of  those  tender  arms, 

And  all  the  glories  of  the  starry  skies 

For  one  warm  kiss  from  that  enchanting  mouth, — 

But  she  dared  not  for  fear  of  waking  him ! 

Ah,  hapless  hearts,  that  beat  together  now, 

Yet  parted  by  a  universe  of  tears! 

Ah,  hapless  souls,  each  craving  for  the  same, 

And  each  forever  doomed  to  pine  in  vain! 

Ah,  would  that  Fate  had  bound  them  both  together 

Like  bride  and  bridegroom  on  their  nuptial  night! 

Soon  through  the  woods  was  heard  the  bay  of  hounds, 
And  then  the  huntress  nymph  of  Artemis 
Came  tripping  down  the  pathway  to  the  brook, 
The  hounds  still  yelping  as  she  moved  along. 
Her  naked  breasts  were  heaving  joyously 
Like  water-lilies  on  the  rocking  waves, 
While  silvery  laughter  fluttered  on  her  lips. 
Her  right  arm  bore  the  skin  of  spotted  pard 
Torn  warm  and  bleeding  from  the  victim's  back. 
She  oped  her  lips  to  cry  out  in  delight, 
And  tell  poor  Echo  of  the  morning's  sport; 
But  Echo  beckoned  her  to  tread  tiptoe, 
And  speak  in  whispers  that  he  might  not  wake. 

* '  Is  this  Narcissus?' '     asked  the  huntress  maid : 
4t  Oh,  what  a  fearful,  wasting  change  is  here! 


46  Narcissus. 

Once  I  beheld  him  like  a  milk-white  fawn, 

But  stricken  now  and  lying  down  to  die; 

Once  I  beheld  him  like  a  lotus  flower, 

The  peerless  swelling  blossom  wonderful, 

Then  budding  in  unearthly  loveliness, 

Now  lying  withered  in  the  sultry  dust; 

Once  I  beheld  him  like  the  round,  full  moon, 

In  naked  beauty  rising  on  the  night, 

With  mellow,  golden  glory  in  his  orb, 

O'er  lovers  true  in  odorous  gardens  sweet, 

But  now,  as  gaunt  and  haggard  as  its  wane, 

When  hanging  shattered,  blanched  and  thin  and  wan, 

Above  the  bare  boughs  of  a  blasted  wood, 

He  sinks  to  perish  in  the  Western  wilds." 

Poor  Echo  could  not  answer  for  her  tears. 
The  huntress  gazed  in  silence  at  the  hounds 
Laving  their  gray  flanks  in  the  crystal  stream, 
Lapping  sweet  waters  with  their  jagged  jaws, 
And  shaking  dew-drops  from  their  hanging  ears. 

Then  said  the  huntress,  starting,  "  I  forgot, 
In  speaking  of  Narcissus'  deep  despair, 
To  tell  thee  that  which  surely  brings  thee  joy. 
Thou  dost  remember  that,  on  yester-eve, 
Down  through  the  Western  scarlet  skies  of  flame 
A  spotless  swan  came  fluttering  to  thy  feet, 
A  cruel  arrow  rankling  in  his  breast. 
Then   thou,   with   kind  hands,   didst  remove   the 
dart, 


Narcissus.  47 

So  that  the  swan  arose  and  soared  away. 
Know  thou  that  swan  belonged  to  Artemis, 
And  she  is  grateful  to  thee,  hapless  nymph. 
She  bids  me  tell  thee  beg  one  boon  of  her, 
Speak  the  one  wish  that  lieth  next  thy  heart, 
And  thou  shall  see  at  once  thy  dream  come  true. 

Echo  at  first  by  this  was  so  amazed 

She  scarce  made  answer  to  the  kindly  nymph, 

But  overjoyed,  at  last  shed  floods  of  tears, 

Gave  heartfelt  thanks,  and  cried  out  in  delight, 

44  Oh,  I  shall  now  to  heavenly  scenes  return. 

Long  have  I  wandered  through  these  earthly  wilds, 

And  yearned  again  to  see  my  happy  home. 

How  often  when  chill  autumn  filled  the  skies 

With  dead  leaves  flying  from  the  haggard  trees, 

How  often  when  the  winter  winds  on  high 

Bore  flocks  of  cranes  towards  the  Southern  seas, 

How  often  when  the  mortals  passed  me  by 

In  funeral  trains,  with  some  enshrouded  form, 

How  often,  in  those  days,  I  craved  for  thee, 

Olympus  blest,  free  from  decay  and  death ! 

I  long  to  see  thy  banquet-halls  again, 

And  take  the  ruby  wine  from  Hebe's  hands, 

I  long  to  see  dear  Iris  smile  once  more, 

And  spend  sweet  converse  on  the  days  gone  by, 

To  gaze  on  youthful  Eros'  face,  and  drink 

Immortal  glory  from  his  wondrous  eyes!  " 

But  Fate  would  hearken  not  to  Echo' s  prayer, 

And  gathered  other  woes  to  wound  her  soul, 


48  Narcissus. 

For  then  Narcissus  murmured  in  his  dreams, 
"  Oh,  would  that  I  could  die!  but  I  can  not; 
The  gods  can  not  immortal  life  destroy. 
Oh,  would  that  heaven,  in  pity  on  my  grief, 
Might    change   me   to    some   painless,    dreamless 
flower!" 

Echo  seemed  stricken  with  a  deadly  wound, 
And  then  grew  still  and  rigid  as  a  stone. 
A  moment  like  a  long  age  slowly  passed, 
And  then  she  said,  ' '  Will  kindly  Artemis 
Grant  more  than  one  wish  unto  hapless  me  ? 
May  I  return  to  heaven  and  save  him  too  ? ' ' 

"  Alas!  "  the  nymph  cried;  "it  can  never  be; 

For  jealous  Here  hates  thee,  stricken  maid. 

My  mistress  scarce  could  gain  consent  from  Zeus 

Who  hath  betrayed  thee  to  his  furious  queen, 

To  let  thee  have  the  granting  of  one  wish, 

And    much    great    Here   murmured    when    'twas 

known 

That  this  one  favor  was  bestowed  on  thee. 
Thou  mayest  choose  to  help  Narcissus  there, 
But  if  thou  dost,  Olympus  shalt  not  see. 
The  curse  upon  Narcissus  can  not  die 
As  long  as  life  remains  within  his  breast, 
And  as  he  is  immortal,  he  must  change 
His  present  shape,  and  live  another  life. 
He  must  be  buried  as  the  mortals  are, 
And  from  his  grave  a  flower  will  soon  ascend 


Narcissus.  49 

% 

To  take  the  life  of  him  now  in  your  arms. 
But  that  would  be  a  special  boon  of  heaven, 
And  the  great  gods  would  do  no  more  for  thee. ' ' 


"  Oh,  no!  "  cried  Echo,  "do  not  change  his  form! 
How  can  I  bear  to  see  my  precious  love 
Changed  to  the  lifeless  beauty  of  a  plant  ? 
Oh,  spare  him,  spare  him!  pity,  pity  me! 
'Twill  bury  me  forever  in  despair!  " 

4 1  But, ' '  said  the  other,  ' '  if  he  changeth  not, 
His  soul  must  writhe  in  never-dying  pain." 

"Ah!"  Echo  cried,   "shall  I  be  doomed  forever 

On  cheerless  Earth  to  roam  in  banishment, 

And  nevermore  behold  Olympus  blest  ? 

Or  must  I,  hapless  maiden,  doom  my  love 

To  sink  forever  in  the  dismal  grave  ? 

What  countless  ages  shall  I  wander  here, 

To  see  earth  wither  in  the  myriad  years, 

Behold  her  cities  ruined,  desolate, 

And  generations  pass  away  and  die! 

To  think  that  I  must  tread  those  endless  years, 

Amid  these  deserts  of  decay  and  death, 

Without  my  love,  the  idol  of  my  soul, 

And  live,  still  live,  alone,  alone,  alone!  " 

""Still,"     said    the    huntress,    "he    must    either 

change 
Or  live  a  life  of  deathless  agony. ' ' 


50  Narcissus. 

*'I  love  him,"  said  poor  Echo,  shedding  tears, — 
"  Let  it  be  so:  his  good  shall  be  my  prayer! 
I  choose  not  to  return  to  heaven  with  thee, 
But  beg  thy  mistress  to  relieve  his  woes! " 
The  huntress  glided  from  her  through  the  woods* 
But  heard  behind  the  piteous  sound  of  sobs; 
Turned,  and  beheld  sad  Echo  clasp  her  love 
As  some  fond  mother  hugs  her  dying  child, 
Speak  words  of  burning  love  within  his  ears, 
Then  kiss  his  sleeping  face  a  thousand  times; 
And  as  the  nymph  towards  Olympus  soared, 
She  heard,  blurred  by  the  distance,  many  moans. 
Till  misty  clouds  obscured  her  view  of  earth, 
And  rushing  winds  stilled  all  its  dreamy  hum. 


v. 

Once  more  the  morning,  like  a  gorgeous  rose 

Bursts  into  blossom  in  a  field  of  fire; 

Once  more  her  white  steeds,  shaking  silvery  manes, 

Leap  forth,  caparisoned  in  blue  and  gold; 

Once  more  her  handmaids  wreathe  the  clouds  with 

flowers, 

From  crystal  goblets  sprinkle  ruby  wines; 
Once  more  the  pale  moon  in  their  veils  of  light 
Is  shrouded  like  a  dead  bride  for  the  tomb; 
Once  more  her  sweet  kiss  thrills  the  dewy  stars, 
Till  all  those  orbs  celestial  faint  with  love, 
Then  melt   their  glories  on  her  milk-white  breasts,. 
And  perish  in  the  splendor  of  her  hair. 


Narcissus.  5 1 

But  as  the  light  fell  on  Narcissus'  brow 
Its  rosy  flame  tinged  livid  hues  of  death. 
The  dryads  swung  amid  the  leafy  boughs, 
The  water-nymphs  arose  above  the  waves, 
The  sylphs  flew  round  like  jeweled  butterflies, 
And  zephyrs  hummed  like  golden-winged  bees. 
But  Echo  heeded  not  those  beauteous  forms, 
And  saw  naught  save  her  loved  one  dying  there. 

His  head  lay  pillowed  on  her  tender  breast 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  a  hoary  oak, 

His  breath  was  coming  slower,  slower  still, 

His  eyes  were  ever  growing  dim  and  dark. 

He  had  been  told  how  Artemis  had  given 

This  one  boon  to  her  lonely,  aching  heart. 

Oft  had  he  thanked  her  for  remembering  him, 

But  never  thought  what  sacrifice  she  made. 

Alas !  how  often  doth  unselfish  love 

See  all  its  tears  unnoticed  or  forgot! 

"  One  boon  I  beg,"  sobbed  Echo,  timidly; 

' '  Wilt  thou  kiss  me,  my  love,  before  thou  diest  ? '  * 

He  put  his  thin  white  arms  around  her  neck, 

And  faintly  smiled  upon  her  pallid  face; 

He  held  his  fevered,  quivering  lips  to  hers, 

And  fell  back  fainting  in  her  trembling  arms; 

Then,  sinking  slowly,  bowed  his  golden  head, 

And  with  one  lingering,  piteous  moan,  he  died. 

A  curdling  cry  pierced  througn  the  startled  air, 
And  woful  Echo  clasped  a  leaden  corpse. 


52  Narcissus. 

The  pensive  Evening  trod  the  Western  hills, 

Her  saffron  mantle  glowing  in  the  skies 

Like  yellow  foliage  of  the  autumn  woods. 

Through  silent  dells  and  lonely  mountain  groves 

Her  dusky  shades,  like  mourners,  crept  along. 

Then  all  the  shepherds  of  the  neighboring  vales, 

And  all  the  lovely  mortal  maidens  there, 

Came  gathering  round  to  look  into  his  face, 

Soon  to  be  hid  beneath  the  chilly  clods. 

And  maiden  hands  brought  many  a  beauteous  flower 

To  scatter  o'  er  his  sad,  untimely  grave, 

White,  azure,  pink  and  purple  hyacinths, 

With  valley-lilies,  frail  and  delicate, 

And  crocus-bloosoms,  pansies  rich  and  dark. 

Soft  buttercups  and  creamy  daffodils, 

The  modest  white  and  purple  violets, 

New-opened  daisies,  with  their  hearts  of  gold, 

Sweet  cowslips,  and  primroses  gemmed  with  dew. 

But  he  was  lovelier  than  those  beauteous  buds, 

And  sweeter  than  their  faint  and  odorous  breath. 

His  pearly  eyelids,  closed  for  evermore, 

Now  hid  the  azure  of  his  dreaming  eyes; 

His  pallid  cheeks  lay  slumbering  calm  and  still; 

The  tiny  dimples  slept  around  his  mouth; 

His  soft  white  hands  were  folded  on  his  heart, 

Like  two  sweet  doves  dead  in  one  little  nest; 

Pure  water-lilies  wreathed  his  golden  hair, 

And  rich  musk-roses  bloomed  above  his  breast 

They  buried  him  in  damp  and  cheerless  earth, 
To  be  the  prey  of  death's  corrupting  hand, 


Narcissus.  53 

And  every  clod  that  fell  upon  him  there 
Dropped  like  a  mountain  on  poor  Echo's  heart. 

Months  passed  away,  and  then  a  pallid  plant 
Arose  and  blossomed  on  his  lonely  grave; 
His  soul  had  passed  within  that  tender  flower, 
And  even  now  it  bears  Narcissus'  name. 

Then  Echo  glided  from  the  sight  of  men, 
And  wandered  through  the  trackless  wilderness, 
Through  lonely  valleys,  mountains  high   and   still, 
Forever  weeping,  calling  out  his  name. 
She  pined  away,  grew  pale  and  paler  still, 
Then  flitted  like  the  shadow  of  a  curse, 
Until  at  last  her  voice  alone  was  left 
To  answer  vaguely  every  vagrant  sound. 
Great  nations  perish,  but  she  can  not  die; 
Vast  empires  crumble,  but  she  lingers  still. 
The  gray  gods  in  Olympus'  lofty  halls 
From  jeweled  goblets  quaff  their  nectar  still; 
She,  unforgiven,  never  can  return, 
Her  name  forgotten  by  them  long  ago. 
And  so  she  wanders  ever,  suffering  still 
Undying  anguish  and  undying  love. 
1887. 


THE  MENDELSSOHN  WEDDING  MARCH. 

JAM  standing  mutely  hearkening  to  thy  passion- 
pealing  notes 

Soaring  like  a  thousand  songsters  trilling  with 
triumphant  throats; 

Sweet  as  mellow  strains  a-floating  from  the  hunts 
man's  bugle-horn 

Far  amid  the  verdant  mountains,  through  the 
crimson  skies  of  morn; 

Thrilling  like  the  trump  of  battle,    when   its   peals 

arising  high 
Rouse  the  dormant  soul  to  rapture,  calling  men  to 

bleed  and  die. 

And  the  joyous  lover  hearkens   to  those  blissful, 

blissful  strains, 
Till  his  heart  soars  like  an  eagle,  tearing  from   his 

captor's  chains; 

Sweet  to  him    as  songs    of  seraphs,    in  a  dying 

pilgrim's  ear, 
As  he  sees  the  earth  grow  dimmer  and  the  pearly 

gates  draw  near! 


The  Mendelssohn    Wedding  March.          55 

But,  his  hapless  rival  listens  with  a  furious,   fierce 

despair 
And  his  heart   leaps   like  a  lion   in   his   grim   and 

gloomy  lair; 

And  he  hearkens  to  its  echoes  as  a  corpse  within 
the  tomb 

Hears  the  distant  rumbling  thunder  of  the  judge 
ment  trump  of  doom. 

Still  resounding,  still  resounding,    are   those   wild 

and  wondrous  peals, 
Till  a  maze  of  weird  enchantment  far  around  the 

spirit  steals. 

Ah,    what   dreams    of  bliss    celestial,     ah,     what 

throngs  of  waking  woes ! 
Ah,  what  dreams  of  summer  splendors,   ah,   what 

storms  of  winter  snows ! 

Ah,  how  many  feet   have   trodden   to   that   music 

rich  and  rare, 
Some   bewinged   with    blissful    blessings,     others 

weighted  with  despair! 

Some  to  love's  enchanted  empire,    mystic   isles   of 

blissful  bloom, 
Some  to  hatred's   blasted   kingdom,    shrouded   in 

eternal  gloom; 

>  ^* 


56  The  Mendelssohn    Wedding  March. 

Some  with  trustful  eyes  adoring,    casting   all    but 

love  away, 
Some  betraying  love   for   riches,    trampling   heart 

and  soul  in  clay; 

Some  to  live  a  life  triumphant,  loving,  loyal,  bright 

and  brave, 
Some  to  see  hope  lost  forever,  sinking  in   a   living 

grave ! 


"THE  LOVE  OF  WOMAN." 

THE  love  of  Woman  blends  within  its  spell, 
The  noon-day  glory  and  the  gloom  of  night, 
The  smiles  of  angels,  frowns  of  demons  fell, 
The  summer  splendor  and  the  autumn  blight. 

Her  love  is  like  a  richly  jeweled  mine 

With  starry  gems  in  burnished  skies  of  gold, 

Or  devious  cavern,  where  no  sun  may  shine, 

Whose  strange,   sad  secrets  tongue  hath  never 
told. 

It  sways  the  heart-strings  like  a  seraph's  hymn 
Resounding  softly  through  the  vesper  sky; 

Or  like  a  witch's  song  in  forest  dim, 

Which  lures  the  traveler  to  her  feet  to  die. 

It  thrills  man's  bosom  like  a  nectar  rare, 

Till,  like  a  God,  he  soars  on  wings  of  flame, 

Or  like  a  poisoned  wine,  with  baleful  snare, 
Which  hurls  him  reeling  in  the  mire  of  shame. 

Her  love  is  like  a  sacred  asphodel 

Which  blossoms  in  the  realms  of  deathless  day, 
Or  lotus,  numbing  heroes  by  its  spell, 

Till  honor,  fame  and  courage  pass  away. 


58  The  Love  of  Woman. 

Her  love  hath  lifted  man  to  godlike  joy, 
As  Cynthia  led  Endymion  to  the  skies, 

Or  like  false  Helen,  firing  towers  of  Troy, 

Hath  smote  him  with  the  splendor  of  her  eyes. 

She  binds  him  with  a  wondrous  witching  wile 
To  give  his  life  to  anguish  or  to  bliss, 

To  win  his  soul's  salvation  with  a  smile, 
Or  slay  his  hopes  of  heaven  with  a  kiss. 


"AS  MORNING  COMES." 

AS  Morning  comes,  to  scatter  through  the  skies 
The  dewy  lilies  from  her  wings  of  white, 
And  greets  the  noontide  with  her  sparkling  eyes, 
^hen  sinks  to  perish  in  the  solemn  night; 

As  Springtime  comes  in  laughter  and  in  joy, 
Then  blossoms  into  summer  rich  and  rare, 

Till  autumn  blasts  her  garlands  green  destroy 
And  winter  shrouds  her  in  his  chill  despair; 

As  Childhood  comes  in  brilliance  and  bloom, 
And  gathers  glory  with  the  fleeting  years, 

Then  flutters  like  a  dead  leaf  to  his  doom, 
Amid  a  storm  ot  sobbing  and  of  tears; 

So  young  Love  came,  mine  aching  heart  to  soothe, 
And  so  I  gladly  took  him  in  my  door, 

My  Morning  and  my  Springtime  and  my  Youth, 
And  so  he  left  me,  sad  for  evermore. 


BETROTHED. 

THOU  hast  my  heart,  and  thou  shall  have  my 
hand, 

Thy  captive  shall  not  crave  her  freedom  more; 
Wert  thou  an  exile  on  a  desert  shore, 
For  thee  my  feet  should  leave  their  native  land; 
If  on  thy  brow  were  Cain's  accursed  brand, 
Thee  as  a  white-robed  saint  would  I  adore; 
Wert  thou  my  master,  I  in  bondage  sore 
Would  rather  serve  thee  than  a  realm  command* 

Yet  know,  as  thou  art  true  or  false  to  me 
My  life  shall  pass  in  glory  or  in  gloom ; 

Thy  nuptial  vow  unto  my  heart  shall  be 
A  song  of  triumph  or  a  trump  of  doom; 

Thy  bosom,  Love,  to  which  my  soul  doth  flee, 
A  couch  of  roses,  or  a  living  tomb. 


A  GIFT. 

1SEND  a  spray  of  roses,  decked  with  dew, 
And  robed  in  richest  red  and  white  attire, 
To  tell  the  story  of  my  love  for  you 

With  souls  of  splendor  and  with  hearts  of  fire. 

The  eager  red  rose  flushes  fervently, 

The  timid  white  rose  faintly  breathes  my  name; 
One  flower  of  passion,  one  of  purity, 

A  star  of  snowflake  and  a  star  of  flame. 

And  you  may  kiss  them,  in  their  morning  glow; 

When  passion  pulses  in  their  fresh  perfume 
From  lips  of  ruby  and  from  lips  of  snow 

In  all  the  glory  of  their  blissful  bloom. 

But  when  their  beauteous  bosoms  all  are  brown, 
And  silken  leaflets  all  are  drooped  and  dry, 

Your  hands  will  fling  my  fading  roses  down 
And  you  will  leave  them  in  the  dust  to  die. 

And  so  I  give  my  fervant  heart  to  you 

To  please  your  fancy  through  a  fleeting  day; 

And  then  you  weary  of  its  passion  true, 
And  ca  st  it  lightly  in  the  dust  away. 


"TO  ONE  WHO  WILL  UNDERSTAND." 

MY  secret  1  have  whispered  in  thine  ears ; 
To  none   but  thee,  my   love,  the  truth  is 

known; 

The  world  is  listening,   but  it  never  hears 
The  sweet  confessions  made  to  thee  alone. 

They  know  not  if  thy  face  be  dark  or  fair, 

A  pearly  lily  or  a  queenly  rose, 
Or  if  thy  cheeks  the  stronger  semblance  bear 

To  summer  sunsets  or  to  winter  snows. 

They  know  not,  darling,  if  thine  eyes  are  blue 
Or  brown  as  tropic  twilights,  precious  love, 

Or  black  as  berries  decked  with  diamond  dew, 
Or  like  the  gray  wings  of  a  dreaming  dove; 

Or  if  the  tresses  which  thy  face  enfold 

Are  like  the  bronze-brown  of  a  hazel  husk 

A  sable  shadow,  or  a  crown  of  gold, 
Or  like  the  auburn  of  an  autumn  dusk. 

Yet,  dearest,  as  the  blossom  to  the  bee, 
Or  listening  maiden  to  the  lover's  lute, 

So,  precious,  thou  shalt  ever  be  to  me, 

My  heart's  own  treasure,  and  its  flower  and  fruit. 


"I  LOVE  THY  FAULTS." 

I  LOVE  thy  faults.     If  angels  said  to  me: 
' '  We  give  thee  power  to  change  her  at  thy 

will," 
My  heart,  forever  loyal  unto  thee, 

Would  leave  thee  as  thou  art,  my  darling,  still. 

If,  like  a  sculptor  in  the  days  of  old, 

My  hands  might  mould  a  form  and  face  divine, 

Mine  eyes  would  turn  from  all  their  beauty  cold, 
And  see  no  sweet  face  in  the  world  but  thine. 

If  I  should  tread  through  blest  abodes  above, 
And  win  the  love  of  angels  wondrous  fair, 

My  soul  would  loathe  their  chill  perfection,  love 
And  then  return,  thy  lowly  lot  to  share. 

If  thou  hast  faults,  my  creed  shall  make  them  right; 

I  love  thee  only  and  I  ever  will. 
If  thou  art  lowly,  yet  thy  hut  is  bright — 

If  heaven  disown  thee,  I  shall  claim  thee  still. 


L'AMANTE  DU  DIABLE. 

"Woman  wailing  for  her  Demon  Lover  " 

COLERIDGE. 

ALL   around   me,    in   the  darkness,  monstrous 
mountain  ridges  stand, 

Guarding  all  the  haunted  pathways  to  this  dim, 
enchanted  land  • 

In  the   west   I    see  the    tatters   of  the   dull   and 

drooping  clouds, 
Where  the  faded  sunset   glories  slumber   in   their 

gloomy  shrouds; 

And  I  see  the  moon's  frail  crescent   near   a  dewy, 

diamond  star, 
Shining  from  the  gates  celestial,    where   the   saints 

and  seraphs  are; 

But   a   mighty   tempest   gathers   in   the   perished 

twilight's  path 
As  a  shaggy  lion  rises,   trembling  with  his  awful 

wrath ; 

And  the  lightnings  flash  and  quiver  like  the  scor 
pion  lashes'  stings 

Drawing  blood  from  cheeks  of  demons,  flying  with 
their  routed  kings; 


/,' Amanthe  du  Diable.  65 

While  the  thunder  peals  gigantic  far  across  the  cliffs 

are  hurled, 
Crashing  like  a  mighty  planet  on  a  wrecked  and 

ruined  world ; 

And  the  winds,  aroused  and  startled,  moaning  in 
in  their  frantic  flight, 

Fill  m^  soul  with  sad  foreboding  on  this  horror- 
haunted  night. 

Once  two  brothers,  deadly  foemen,  met  upon   this 

wrinkled  wold, 
And  within  each  other's  bosoms  drove  their  daggers 

keen  and  cold: 

And  a  pair  of  guilty  lovers,  hiding  in  this  place  of 

woe, 
At  the  stake  were  burned  to  ashes  in  the  dim  vears 

long  ago; 

And  a  traitor  seeking  refuge  when  this  ancient  land 

was  young, 
By  a  throng  of  furious  yeomen  on   this  withered 

tree  was  hung. 

Here  I  come   to   meet   thee,    Satan,    ruined   king 

whom  I  adore, 
Thou,  my  prince,    my  lord,    my  master,    and  my 

monarch  evermore! 


66  U  Amante  du  Diable. 

Now  I  see  thee  come  to  meet  me  and  I  rush  within 

thine  arms, 
While  my  bosom  bounds  with  passion  for  thy  wild 

and  wondrous  charms. 

I,  the  seraph,  blest  and  beauteous,  robed  in  radiant 

starry  light, 
With  my  golden  locks   encircled   with   the   pearly 

lilies  white, 

I,  that  soar  on  swan-like  pinions,  blossom-bosomed,. 

flower-fair, 
I,  with  eyes  like   purest   dew-drops,    twinkling   in 

the  azure  air, 

I  have  come  to  meet  thee,  Satan,   with   thy   wings 

of  ashen  gray, 
Seared  with  sins  and  seared  with  sorrows  that  shall 

never  pass  away! 

With  thine  eyes  so  grand  and  gloomy,  raven  tres 
ses  flecked  with  frost, 

And  thy  mien  so  melancholy,  hapless  Monarch  of 
the  Lost! 

With  thy  step  so  proud  and  princely,  as  it  seems 

to  spurn  the  sod, 
With  thy  high  brow,   scarred  and  blasted  by  the 

cruel  bolts  of  God! 


L  Amante  du  Diable.  67 

I  have  left  the  vine-clad  vistas  and  the  palms  of 
paradise, 

Where  the  song-birds  sing  forever  under  diamond- 
tinted  skies, 

Where  the  silken,  saffron  roses  swoon  with  odors 

rich  as  wine, 
And   the   sprays    of  jasmine    blossoms    through 

the  myrtle  branches  twine, 

Where  the  crystal  fountains  bubble  under  woods 

forever  green, 
And  the  fields  are  gemmed  with    glories    like  a 

gorgeous  Eastern  queen, — 

Left  them  all  to  meet  thee,  Satan, — left  my  throne 
and  crown  and  lyre, 

Flying  through  the  myriad  systems,  past  the  whirl 
ing  stars  of  fire! 

Satan,    grander   than   the   mountains,    with    their 

gloomy  giant  forms! 
Satan,  grander  then  the  heavens,  with  their  wild, 

majestic  storms! 

Satan,    grander  than  the  ocean,  with  its  vast  and 

solemn  waves! 
Satan,  grander  than  the  desert,   with  its  withered 

waste  of  graves! 


68  U  Amante  du  Diable. 

Like  a  fierce  volcano  rising  with  its  regal  crimson 

crest ! 
Like  a  wierd  and  wondrous  comet,  terrifying  every 

breast ! 

Let  me  heal  thy  wounded  visage  where  the  jagged 

lightnings  fell, 
Kiss  thy  worn  feet,  burned  and  blackened  by  the 

flaming  dust  of  Hell ! 

I  have  angel  wooers,  Satan,  who  can  never  win  my 

love, 
For  my  heart  was  hurled    to  Hades  when  they 

hurled  thee  from  above; 

And    those    angel  lovers,    Satan,    all   are  grand, 

divinely  fair, 
With  their  gray  eyes  soft   and  saintly,    with   their 

waving  golden  hair  • 

With  their  princely  eagle  pinions,   sandals  flecked 

with  sparkling  gems, 
And  their  broad   white   brows   majestic,    wreathed 

with  starry  diadems 

With  their  voices  sweet  and  solemn,  like  the  poet 
kings  of  old, 

As  they  stand  before  the  Master  with  their  wond 
rous  harps  of  gold. 


L?  Amante  du  Diable.  69 

And  they  sing  me  songs  of  passion,    melting  from 

their  lips  divine, 
And  around  my  clustered  ringlets    purple    lotus 

blossoms  twine. 

But  I  turn  from  angel  faces,  come  to  cheer  thee  in 
thy  doom, 

Kiss  the  wan,  wild  star  thou  wearest  in  thy  fore 
head's  mournful  gloom; 

So  I  steal  from  heights  of  heaven  and   the   realms 

of  deathless  day, 
Meet  thee  in  benighted  deserts  in  this  lone  world 

far  away, 

Or  I  wander  till  I  find  thee,  flying  on  from  zone  to 
zone, 

And  I  throw  mine  arms  around  thee  on  thine  ever 
burning  throne. 


THE  POTTERS  FIELD 
I. 

SEE  the  lonesome  fields  forsaken  in  their  desol 
ation  spread, 

Heaving  with  the  silent  grave-mounds  of  the  name 
less  pauper  dead. 

Never  blooms  a  rose  above  them,   never  peeps  a 

violet  here, 
No  one  comes  to  sit  beside  them,   no  one   comes 

to  shed  a  tear. 

No  one  speaks  a  word  of  pity,   no  one  breathes  a 

word  of  love, 
Earth  around  them  shrinks  with   loathing,    heaven 

recoils  with  scorn  above. 

Here  are  sleeping  thieves   and   beggars,    here   the 

outcast  babes  of  shame, 
Here  the  felon   from  the  gallows,    here  the   waif 

without  a  name. 

Here  the  suicide  lies  sleeping,  with  the  madman  by 

his  side 
And  the  drunkard  and  the  spendthrift  in  the  same 

strange  home  abide. 


The  Potters  Field.  71 

Here  the  ruined  woman  slumbers,  while  her  lover, 

far  away 
Jn  his  revels,  thinketh  never  of  his  victim  in  the 

clay. 

Yet  what  vernal  visions  wreathed  them  in  their 
childhood  long  ago! 

Ah,  what  aspirations  perished  in  the  pauper  grave 
yard  low! 

Ah,    what   happy   mothers   kissed   them    in   their 

lovely  boyish  bloom, 
Never  dreaming  that  their  idols  thus  should  share 

the  felon's  tomb! 

Ah,  what  trustful  maidens  kissed  them,  gazing  in 

their  eyes  so  brave, 
Never  dreaming  that  their  lovers  thus  should  share 

the  drunkard's  grave! 

And  the  ardent  lover  fondling  this  frail  outcast's 

golden  hair, 
Never  dreamed   that   he,    a   traitor,    should   thus 

drive  her  to  despair, 

Nor  that  this  same  trustful  being,   burning  with  a 

love  untold, 
Soon  would  sink  and  lie  decaying  in  the  pauper 

graveyard  mould. 


72  The  Potters  Field. 

While  their  babe,  scorned  and  deserted,  soon 
would  hide  his  shameful  birth 

Far  below  in  dust  polluted  of  the  pauper  grave 
yard's  earth. 

II. 

But  amid  the  nameless  outcasts  sleep  the  good  and 

brave  and  true, 
They  who  lived  and  died  for  duty,  they  the  world's- 

immortal  few. 

For  the  palm  to  those  deserving  evermore  shall  be 

denied; 
They  must  tread  the  earth  with  beggars,   slumber 

by  the  beggars'  side; 

And  the  good  and  great  and  noble  in  a  lowly  grave 

lie  down 
Ere  the  fickle  world  rewards  them  with  the  sceptre 

and  the  crown. 

Here     are    sleeping     peerless     poets,    they     who- 

begged  from  door  to  door, 
But  whom  Death  has  wreathed  with   laurels  green 

and  glad  forevermore! 

Here  are  sleeping   brave  old  martyrs,    they   who 

strove  to  make  us  free, 
Whom  the  flames  consumed  to  ashes  for  their  love 

of  you  and  me. 


The  Potters  Field.  73 

And  they  sleep  as  sweetly,  calmly,  in  these  pauper 

graveyard  scenes, 
As  the   laurelled  victor  slumbers   by  the   side   of 

kings  and  queens. 

Here  are  sleeping  countless  heroes,  whom  the  world 

remembers  not, 
They  who  loved  and  toiled  and  struggled  in  their 

chill  and  cheerless  lot; 

But  while  Earth  has  turned  unheeding  in  its  hurried 

stir  and  strife, 
Angels   all    their    names    have    treasured   in   the 

Master's  book  of  life! 

III. 

Now    I    dream    I   see   the   dawning   of  the   awful 

judgment  day, 
Far  across  the  Eastern  mountains,  and  the  Eastern 

seas  away. 

And  the  dull  ears  of  those  sleepers  hear  the  trumpet 

in  their  palls, 
While  their  dumb  tongues  strive  to  answer  to  its 

wild,  soul-stirring  calls. 

And  from  out   their   rusted   coffins   myriad  bony 

shapes  arise, 
While  their  dim  eyes  catch  the  glimmer  in  the  vast, 

vague  eastern  skies. 


74  The  Potters  Field. 

Then  the  beggar  feebly  totters  from  his  grim  and 

gaping  grave, 
And  he  stands  at  last  the  equal  of  the  great  and 

strong  and  brave; 

Then  the  felon  struggles  slowly  from  his  dark  and 

dusty  shroud, 
There  to  face  the  last  of  Judges  with  the  rich  and 

high  and  proud; 

Then  the  ruined  woman  rises  with  her  infant  from 

the  tomb, 
There  to  meet  her  trembling  lover  who  at  last 

must  share  her  doom. 

So  the  pauper  graveyard's  children  unto  endless 

life  arise, 
Now  the   equal  of  the    haughty    in    the    great 

Creator's  eyes; 

Still  to  live  and  live  forever,  when  the  myriad  years 

have  fled, 
When  the  world  is  crushed   to  atoms,  and  the  suns 

and  stars  are  dead. 


TEMPTED. 

WILT  thou  feel  no  pang  of  pity  as  I  turn  with 
tears  to  thee  ? 

Ah,  desist,  thou  darling  Tempter,  loose  thy  grasp 
and  set  me  free 

In  thine  eyes  I  see  the  fury  and  the  frenzy  of  desire, 
Till  my  pulses  thrill  my  bosom  and  my  heart  and 
soul  with  fire. 

So  I  dare  not  spurn  or  scorn  thee,  so  my  poor  feet 

can  not  fly, 
And  my  soul  is  filled  with  longing  in  thine  eager 

arms  to  die. 

As  the  sparrow  sees  the  serpent  coiling  close  around 

her  nest 
Till  the  spellbound  mother  flutters  fainting  on  his 

jeweled  crest: 

As  the  terror-stricken  traveler  in  the  desert's  de 
vious  ways 

Sees  a  tiger  crouch  before  him  with  his  cruel  eyes 
ablaze: 

As  the   fated   youth   sits   gazing   at   the   goblet's 

purple  rim 
And  beholds  his  wreck  and  ruin  rising  in  the  future 

dim: 


7  6  Tempted. 

As  the  numb,  enchanted  dreamer  sees  the  night 
mare  drawing  near 

When  his  tongue  is  dumb  with  horror  and  his  feet 
are  chained  with  fear: 

So  I  see  thee,  sweetest  Tempter,  snare  me  in  thy 

fearful  charms 
While  I  dare  not  shrink  or  struggle,  but  must  sink 

within  thine  arms. 

Ah,  what  joy,  what  bliss  enchanting,  soon  to  droop 

with  blast  and  blight! 
Ah,   what  brilliant  blooms    of  morning,  soon    to 

perish  in  the  night! 

Now  Remorse  is  faintly  calling,    dimly  calling  in 

mine  ears, 
Far  away  from  days  of  childhood,  far  away  through 

realms  of  tears! 

As  the  horn  of  Roland  sounded,  far  across  the 

mounts  and  vales, 
While  his  comrades,   leagues  beyond  him,  faintly 

heard  its  piteous  wails; 

As  his  myriad  foemen  slew  him  when  no  comrade's 

aid  was  nigh, 
So  Remorse,  at  bay,  surrounded,  soon  must  fall  to 

dust,  and  die. 


Tempted.  77 

Now  I  see  far  in  the  future  gathering  hosts  of  death 
less  woes, 

See  my  springtime  blossoms  perish  in  the  chill 
white  winter  snows; 

See  my  old  friends  all  forsake  me,  see  them  laugh 

to  hear  my  name, 
See  my  mother's  piercing  anguish,   see  my  father 

curse  my  shame, 

See   me   sinking,   lower,    lower,  sinking,     sinking 

lower  down, 
In  the  night-time,  homeless,   friendless,   wandering 

through  the  wicked  town. 

And  I  see  thee,  cruel   Tempter,    laughing   at   my 

loving  trust; 
See  thee  turn  the  traitor,  Tempter,   see   thee   hurl 

me  in  the  dust. 

But  thy  fearful  fascination  chains  me  in  thine  eager 

arms, 

And  I  strive  in  vain  to  rouse  me  from  thy  fell   and 
fateful  charms. 

So  I  turn  from  all  the  glories   of  the   blest  abodes 

above, 
That  my  soul  may  share  the  blisses   of  thy  baleful, 

blasting  love. 

So   I   turn   from  home  and   hearthstone,    father, 

mother,  comrades,  all, 
So  I  cease  to  struggle,  Tempter,  and  I  waver,   and 

I  fall. 


THE  RESURRECTION. 

1HAVE  watched  and  I  have  waited  through  the 
flight  of  months  and  years, 

I  have  watched  and  I  have  waited  through  a  world 
of  doubts  and  fears. 

Loving  you  through  vernal  vistas,  when  the  Easter 

lily  blows, 
Loving  you  through    chill    Decembers   with   their 

swirls  of  silent  snows; 

Loving  you  through  stately   Summers,  with  their 

wealth  of  golden  sheaves, 
Loving  you  through  mournful  Autumns,  with  their 

crowns  of  withered  leaves; 

Loving  you  amid  the  shadows   of  the   melancholy 

night, 
Loving  you  amid  the  carols  of  the  birds  at  morning 

light. 

But  I  lost  you,  and  I  heeded  not  their  glory  or  their 

gloom, 
For  my  loyal  heart  was  buried  in  the  shadow  of  the 

tomb; 

And  it  crumbled  in  its  charnel  where   the   bolts   of 

iron  rust, 
Prisoned  under  walls  of  granite  in  the  ashes  and 

the  dust: 


The  Resurrection.  79 

Far   away   in   haunted   deserts,  over   solemn  seas 

forlorn, 
Far  beyond   the   mystic   mountains,    never   lit   by 

light  of  morn: 

In  a  realm  of  mournful  midnight,  where  no  friendly 

feet  may  tread, 
Shrouded  with  the  silent  sleepers,  in  the  dwellings 

of  the  dead. 

But    I    heard   you   calling,    Darling,    through   the 

bitterness  and  blight, 
Through  the  death  and  desolation,  through  the  dark 

December  night. 

And  the  charnel  bolts  were  broken,  and  a  Seraph 

set  me  free, 
As    the   angel   came   at    midnight    to    the    tomb 

in  Galilee. 

Once  again  I  feel  the  fervor  of  the  swoonful  spring 
time  flowers, 

Once  again  I  see  the  brilliance  of  the  summer's 
blissful  bowers. 

Once  again  the  brooklets  bubble  and  I  see  the 
happy  herds: 

Once  again  I  hear  the  trilling  of  a  thousand  blithe 
some  birds. 


8o  The  Resurrection. 

All  is  mirthful,  all  is  merry,  earth  and  sea  and  sky 

above; 
And  the  bees  and  buds  and  breezes  all  are  telling 

tales  of  ^love. 

And  my  hands  shall  scatter  roses,   arch  her   path 

with  garlands  green, 
For  my  loyal  heart  is  longing  for  the  coming  of  the 

Queen. 

She  is  coming,  and  stall  never  leave   her  love   to 

tread  alone; 
Coming  back  to  reign  forever,  to  her   scepter   and 

her  throne! 

She  is  coming,  she  is  coming!  all  is  grand  and  all 

is  glorious, 
She  is  coming,  she  is  coming!  and  my  heart  is  now 

victorious ! 

So  her  sweet  face  close  beside  me,  shall  be  ban 
ished  from  me  never; 

And  the  night  of  desolation  fadeth  from  my  heart 
forever. 


SEPARATED. 

I  SAW  a  thousand  faces  on  my  way, 
But  I  was  lonely,  for  thou  wert  not  there! 
I  missed  the  glory  of  thy  golden  hair, 
And  sought  thy  sweet  face  all  the  dreary  day, 
As  through  the  haunts  of  songsters  soft  in  May, 
Some  sad  bird  seeks  his  mate  in  dumb  despair, 
Or  through  the  skies,  where  countless  torches  glare, 
A  lost  star  seeks  its  own  sun's  friendly  ray. 

Mayhap  thy  soul  doth  long  my  soul  to  greet, 
Mayhap  thy  lips  my  fervent  kisses  crave; 
But  we  no  more  upon  one  path  may  meet, 
Than  if  between  us  spread  the  wold  and  wave; 
So  darling,  in  thy  bosom  soft  and  sweet 
My  love  hath  found  its  cradle  and  its  grave. 


FORTUNE  TELLING. 

WHEREVER  you  go,  my  brave  little  boy, 
With  bluest  of  eyes  and  brightest  of  hair, 
With  laughter  and  love  and  jesting  and  joy, 
So  free  from  the  stains  of  earthly  despair, 
I  know  that  some  day  you  too  shall  shed  tears, 
Shall  drink  of  a  cup  of  wormwood  and  gall; 
Shall  fade  like  a  leaf  in  the  flight  of  the  years, 

Till  coffin  and  shroud  shall  cover  it  all, — 
Wherever  you  go,  my  darling, 

Wherever  you  go. 

Wherever  you  go,  my  brave  little  man, 

Your  poor  little  feet  shall  falter  at  last, 
Your  hopes  shall  deceive,  strive  on  as  you  can, 

And  hope  shall  become  a  thing  of  the  past: 
Your  heart  shall  be  seared  with  shame  and  with  sin, 

And  bleed  as  you  think  of  innocence  fled; 
The  day  shall  depart  and  night  shall  begin, 

When  Beauty  and  Youth  and  Pleasure  are  dead, — 
Wherever  you  go,  my  darling, 

Wherever  "ou  go. 

Wherever  you  go,  my  darling,  my  dear, 

Beside  you  I  see  a  shadow  forlorn, 
A  phantom  of  sin  and  sorrow  and  fear, — 

The  man  you  shall  be  in  years  to  be  born. 


Fortune   Telling.  83 

I  know  not,  my  boy,  if  you  shall  win  fame, 
If  Fortune  shall  give  you  a  chain  or  a  crown; 

No  matter,  my  boy,  it  still  is  the  same; 

The  flower  must  fade,  the  ship  must  go  down, — 

Wherever  you  go,  my  darling, 

Wherever  you  go. 


"I  WONDER  WHY." 

I  WONDER  why  our  sweetest  joys  are  sins, 
Why  Pleasure    treadeth  hand   in    hand    with 

Death, 

Why  Beauty  bloometh  with  a  poisoned  breath, 
Why  burning  Love  and  blasting  Hate  are  twins, 
Why  Passion  stingeth  when  its  bliss  begins, 
Why  adders  coil  around  the  wine-cup's  wreath 
And  why  the  flaming  sword  leaps  from  its  sheath 
To  slay  him  who  the  fruit  forbidden  wins. 

For  Love  and  Youth  and  beauty  thou  shalt  see, 
Reeling  with  wine  in  swoonful  sveetness  lie 

Beneath  a  green-boughed,  golden-fruited  tree, 
While  Hatred,  Death  and  Madness  crouch  near 
by. 

O,  tempted  traveler,  turn  and  quickly  flee! 
For  if  thou  pluckest,  thou  shall  surely  die. 


LIFE. 

1SAW  a  throng  of  prisoners  in  a  cell, 
Who,  one  and  all,  were  doomed  to  die  next  day. 
Some  laughed  and  shouted  in  a  reckless  way, 
Some  raved  and  cursed  and  swore  like  demons  fell, 
Some  sobbed  and  bade  their  friends  a  last  farewell, 
Some  shuddered  in  a  dream  of  dull  dismay, 
Some  ate,  some  drank,  or  sat  with  cards  at  play, 
Some  seemed  to  hearken  to  a  funeral  bell. 

Mine  eyes  with  pity  for  them  filled  with  tears; 

But  they  are  living  just  as  you  and  I. 
The  prison  is  this  world  of  fitful  fears, 

The  prisoners  but  our  doomed  humanity; 
Our  day  is  set  within  a  few  short  years, 

And  laugh,  or  weep,  or  curse,  like  them  we  die. 


"I  KNOW  NOT  WHY  I  LOVE  THEE." 

1KNOW  not  why  I  love  thee.     There  may  be 
A  thousand  fairer,  wiser;  yet  I  pine 

0  precious  Love,  alone  to  call  thee  mine. 
One  life,  one  love  is  given  unto  me, 

One  life,  one  love  is  given  unto  thee; 

One  fleeting  day  we  drink  this  cup  divine, 
One  fleeting  day  thine  arms  around  me  twine, 

And  then  we  slumber  through  eternity. 

If  I  may  win  thee,  all  is  deathless  day; 

Hope's  brilliant  banners  never  shall  be  furled; 
If  I  may  win  thee,  grief  shall  pass  away, 

And  every  anguish  in  the  dust  be  hurled. 
If  I  must  lose  thee,  all  is  crumbling  clay, — 

1  lose  my  soul,  my  lifetime,  all  the  world. 


THE  REDBIRD. 

REDBIRD,  Redbird,  brave  and  brilliant,  flitting 
on  thy  wings  of  flame, 

Tell  me,  Redbird,  shrill  and  startling,  whence  thy 
blood- red  plumage  came  ? 

Like  a  scarlet-crested  poppy,  blazing  in  the  sultry 

noon, 
Like  the  frail,  enchanted   crescent   of  the   crimson 

setting  moon; 

Like  a  spray  of  fiery  tulips,    with   their  hearts   of 

golden  light, 
Like  a  ruby  star   arising   in   the   shadows    of  the 

night; 

Like  the  burning  blush  of  sunrise,  in  the  eastern 
skies  away, 

Like  the  sunset' s  splash  of  splendor  from  the  bleed 
ing  heart  of  day; 

Flaming  through  the  dogwood  blossoms,  creamy- 
clustered  locust  trees, 

Swinging  on  the  grape-vine's  tendrils,  flying  with 
the  booming  bees; 


88  The   Redbird. 

Mingling  with  the  scarlet  trumpets,  where  the 
verdant  creepers  twine, 

Flushing  like  a  falling  goblet,  spilling  out  its  spark 
ling  wine; 

Blushing  through  the  cypress  branches,  through 
the  green  swamps,  cool  and  still, 

Waking  all  the  emerald  shadows  with  thy  sharp 
and  sudden  trill; 

Redbird,  Redbird,  brave  and  brilliant,    flitting   on 

thy  wings  of  flame, 
Tell  me  Redbird,  shrill  and  startling,   whence  thy 

blood-red  plumage  came  ? 

II. 

I  was  once  an  Indian  maiden,  in  the  dream-years, 

long  ago, 
When  the  Redman  in  these  forests  first  beheld  his 

pale-faced  foe. 

Then  a  young  knight  with  his  comrades  marched 

within  our  fatherland ; 
Never  had  our  simple  people   seen   so   bright   and 

brave  a  band; 

And  their  leader  trod  before  them,  with  a  gay  and 

gallant  air, 
With  his  blue  eyes,    dark   and   dreamy,    with   his 

clustered  golden  hair; 


The   Redbird.  89 

With  his  sweet  mouth,  like  wild  rose,  and  his  cheeks 

of  boyish  bloom, 
With  his  white  brow  overshadowed  by  his  helmet's 

snowy  plume. 

All  my  people  bade   him   welcome,    though   their 

hearts  were  hot  with  hate, 
And  they  gave  their   hands    in   friendship,    but   in 

secret  planned  his  fate. 

Yet  I  often  met  the  stranger,  and  he  kindly  spake 
to  me 

In  the  strange  and  broken  accents  of  his  home  be 
yond  the  sea; 

And    I    often   wandered   with   him,    through    the 

forest,  field  and  dell, 
And  his  sweet  and  subtle  whispers  bound  me   with 

a  blissful  spell. 

I  would  tell  him    mystic   legends    of  our   tribe  in 

vanished  days, 
Names  of  birds    and   trees   and    insects,    blossoms 

budding  in  our  ways, 

Habits  of  the   crawling    serpent,     cunning   of  the 

crafty  fox, 
Of  the  hare  and  hawk  and  squirrel,  and  the   eagle 

in  the  rocks; 


90  The  Redbird. 

He  would  tell  me  of  his  people  in  the  realms  be 
yond  the  sea, 

Of  their  kingdoms  and  their  cities,  like  a  wonder 
land  to  me. 

So  my  soul  was  made  his  captive,  and  I  longed   to 

follow  him, 
As   a   slave   beside   her  master,    far    beyond    the 

mountains  dim. 

Once  I  stole  among  our  chieftains,  slipping   like   a 

stealthy  spy, 
And  I  heard  the  painted  warriors  swearing  that  my 

knight  must  die. 

Then,  with  bare  feet,  in  the  midnight,  through  the 

dank  and  chilling  dew, 
Crawling,  cringing,    creeping,    running,    stole   the 

silent  village  through: 

Then  I  found  my  lover  sleeping  in  his   quiet   tent, 

near  by, 
And  revealed  to  him  the  secret,  that   he  might  not 

stay  and  die; 

Then  I  pressed  his  bounding  bosom  to  my  palpi 
tating  breast, 

Felt  his  fond  farewell  embraces,  nevermore  to  be 
caressed; 


The  Redbird.  91 

Then  I  blessed  him  and  I  kissed  him,  to  our  village 

took  my  flight, 
And  I  lost  my  love  forever,  on  that  anguish-haunted 

night. 

And  he  fled  from  out  our  forests,   baffled  all  the 

Indians'  hate, 
But  he  left  me  with  my  people, — left   me   there   to 

meet  my  fate. 

For  the  warriors   knew   me   guilty,    led   me   to    a 

lonely  wood, 
And    they   stabbed   mine   aching    bosom,     till     I 

perished,  dyed  in  blood. 

But  my  lover,  false  and  fickle,    never   dreamed   or 

cared  for  me, 
Wooed  and  won  a  beauteous  maiden  in   his   home 

beyond  the  sea. 

So  my  ghost  is  flitting  ever,  like  an  autumn   leaflet 

red, 
When   the   summer   suns   have    faded,     and     the 

summer  blooms  have  fled. 

So  I  strive  to  hide  my  sorrow,  as  I  flit  from  tree  to 
tree, 

As  the  cynic  hides  his  anguish  with  a  hollow- 
hearted  glee. 


9 2  The  Redbird. 

So  a  woman's  love,    once  given,    nevermore   shall 

pass  away; 
But  the  jewel,  by  her  lover,  soon  is  trampled  in  the 

clay. 


THE  CAPTIVE  MOCKING-BIRD. 

I  SEE  the  mock-bird  in  his  lonely  cage, 
Forever  banished  from  his  native  hills, 
Still  beating  at  his  bars  in  helpless  rage, 

And  panting  for  the  woodlands  and  the  rills. 

Yet,  like  the  violin,  which  weaves  in  one, 
All  other  measures  and  all  other  notes, 

He  blends  the  songs  sung  under  every  sun 
With  all  the  fervor  of  a  thousand  throats. 

He  sings  the  stanzas  in  his  soul's  distress 
Of  all  the  poets  ever  known  before, 

The  Shakespeare  of  the  Western  wilderness 
Who  warbles  lays  of  every  sea  and  shore. 

Ane  like  the  highborn  maidens  long  ago, 
Whose  beauty  brought  a  dowry  of  despair, 

Or  ancient  minstrels,  with  their  lives  of  woe, 
Forever  doomed  to  want  and  wasting  care, 

His  soaring  spirit  clanks  its  cruel  chains, 

And  strives  and  struggles  in  its  hopeless  rage: 

His  glorious  gifts  shall  bring  him  burning  pains, 
And  only  death  can  free  him  from  his  cage. 


94  The  Captive  Mocking-Bird. 

So,  I  remember,  when  a  happy  boy 

I  roamed  through  fields  and  forests  all  abloom, 
And  by  my  side  were  Beauty  and  Love  and  Joy, 

Who  soon  departed  to  their  silent  tomb; 

And  I  remember  in  those  distant  days, 

They  brought  me  from  my  far-off  happy  home, 

Sweet  isles  of  Eden,  lost  in  mellow  maze 
Beyond  the  waste  of  ocean's  flakes  of  foam. 

And  so  my  soul,  with  aspirations  grand, 
On  wings  of  song  is  seeking  still  to  soar, 

An  exile  in  a  strange  and  distant  land 
Who  sighs  for  splendors  lost  forevermore. 


THE  REVELLERS. 

COME,  my  comrades,  fill  the  glasses   till   they 
bubble  to  the  brim, 

For  the  hateful  light  of  morning  struggles  through 
the  shadows  dim, 

Like  a  witch's  seething  caldron  on  the   hilltops   of 

the  East, 
And  I  loathe  it  as  it  flickers   on   the   ruins    of  our 

feast : 

And  I  shudder  as  it  glimmers  with  its  flitting  flames 

of  blue, 
Through  the  murky  mists  and  mazes,  through  the 

cold  and  clammy  dew. 

Now  we  see  each  other's  faces  after   all   our   fierce 

carouse, 
Throbbing  pulses,  parching  eyelids,  flaming  cheeks 

and  haggard  brows; 

Now  Remorse  and  Grief  and  Anguish    come  with 

stealthy,  silent  tread, 
And  our  souls  are  writhing  serpents,  and  our  hearts 

are  lumps  of  lead. 


g6  The  Revellers. 

So,  my  comrades,  fill  the  glasses,    and   our   woes 

shall  pass  away; 
We  shall  hide  the  wrecks  and  ruins  scattered  in  the 

light  of  day. 

And  I  see  the  glasses  bubble  with  a  splendor  crys 
talline, 

And  I  see  them  bubble,  bubble,  with  a  bounding 
bliss  divine. 

And  I  see  them  palpitating  like  the  sparkling  stars 

of  night, 
Like   the   ambient   eyes   of  seraphs  under   foamy 

wings  of  white; 

Here  the  red  wine   flames   and   flushes   like   the 

rose's  burning  breast, 
Here  the  white  wine  shines  and  shimmers,  like  the 

lily's  creamy  crest; 

Here  the  ruddy  goblet  glimmers  like   the   glow   of 

morning  hours, 
And  the  trembling   white   wine   twinkles   like   the 

dews  on  spotless  flowers. 

Now  I  see  the  hazy  hillsides  of  a  land  renowned  in 
story, 

Sung  by  sweetest  songs  of  poets,  decked  in  never- 
dying  glory; 


The  Revellers.  97 

And  I  see  the  verdant  vineyards  in  that  wondrous 
kingdom  old, 

With  their  grapes  of  royal  purple,  nd  their  clust 
ered  grapes  of  gold; 

And  I  see  the  peasant  maidens  plucking  from  the 
loaded  vines, 

And  I  see  their  naked  bosoms  sweeter  than  delici 
ous  wines. 

So   I    fly  to   lands  of  fancy,    fearing  to  return  to 

earth, 
Strewn  with  wrecks  and  strewn   with  ruins,  desert 

realms  of  death  and  dearth. 

I  have  lost  my  youth  forever,  lost   my   honor  and 

my  name, 
Trod  the  wastes  of  desolation,   staggered  through 

the  mires  of  shame; 

Once  a  sweet  girl  made  me  happy,  as  her  blue  eyes 

gazed  in  mine, 
And  her  gentle  smiles  and  kisses  filled  me  with   a 

love  divine, 

But   the   demon   Dissipation    tore  the  lovers   far 

apart, 
And  her  sweet  face  faded  from  me, — left  me  with  a 

broken  heart ; 


98  The  Revellers. 

So  at  last  the  goblet's   poison   through   my    sense 

and  spirit  stole, 
Till  it  owned  my  very  being,  and  my  body  and  my 

soul. 

It  has  fettered  me  forever,  and  will  never   set    me 

free; 
It  is  mother,    father,    brother,    sister,    lover   unto 

me. 

Comrades,  comrades,  fill  the  glasses  till  the  bright 

beads  bubble  o'er: 
Drink  to  vanished  dreams  and  visions,  hopes  now 

fled  forevermore; 

Drink     to    wrecks   of   time    and    talent,     happy 

moments  passed  away, 
Drink  to  ruined  lives  and  labors,  doomed  to  perish 

and  decay; 

Let  the  crystal  glasses  bubble,  mocking  at  the 
morning  light, 

As  we  drink  to  desolation,  coffin,  shroud  and  end 
less  night. 


OUT  OF  THE  FOLD. 

ONE  is  astray  from  the  Shepherd's  fold, 
One  is  astray  on  the  mountains  cold, 
Treading  alone  through  the  fading  light, 
Treading  alone  through  the  coming  night. 

And  the  Shepherd  calls  in  his  sweet,  wild  way, 
Through  the  dreary  dusk  of  the  dying  day, 
Through  the  falling  dews  and  the  misty  gloam, 
For  the  one  poor  sheep  that  has  strayed  from  home; 

Weary  and  worn,  with  a  piteous  cry, 

Weary  and  worn,  he  is  sinking  to  die, 

While  the  gaunt,  gray  wolves  through  the   deserts 

dark, 
Follow  him  fast  with  their  fearful  bark. 

Will  the  Shepherd  bear  on  his  bosom  warm 
The  wounded  sheep  from  hurt  and  from  harm  ? 
Shall  the  poor  lost  lamb  be  left  to  his  fate  ? 
Shall  the  Shepherd  come  too  late,  too  late  ? 


So  runneth  the  story  so  sweet  and  so  old 
Of  the  sheep  astray  in  the  mountains  cold, 


ioo  Out  of  the  Fold. 

Treading  alone  at  dusk  to  his  doom, 
While  the  Shepherd   calls   through   the   gathering 
gloom. 

So  I  am  treading  in  piteous  plight 

Through  the  grief  and  gloom,  through  the  coming 

night, 

Treading  the  streets  of  the  wicked  town, 
Treading  the  streets  when  the  sun  goes  down. 

Bearing  a  breast  all  burdened  with  woes 
Through  the  biting  winds  and  the  bitter  snows, 
Suppressing  a  sob  and  choking  a  cry, 
Hopeless  of  rest,  yet  fearing  to  die. 

I  have  scoffed  and  scorned  to  smother  my  fears, 
I  have  laughed  aloud  at  thy  streaming  tears, 
I  have  sung  gay  songs  and  quaffed  of  the  wine 
To  forget  thy  face  with  its  love  divine. 

Where  the  red  light  glares  like  an  eye  of  fire, 
In  a  gaudy  room  and  in  gay  attire, 
In  the  poisoned  air,  like  a  dragon's  breath, 
I  stand  at  the  stairs  of  the  halls  of  death. 

But  behold,  at  my  door  the  Sheperd  stands, 
And  beckons  to  me  with  his  bleeding  hands, 
And  I  see  his  feet  all  weary  and  worn, 
His  wounded  breast  and  His  crown  of  thorn! 


Out  of  the  Fold.  101 

Merciful  Christ,  with  the  princely  grace, 
Merciful  Christ,  with  the  sad,  sweet  face, 
Merciful  Christ,  with  the  mournful  eyes, 
Remember  me  when  the  daylight  dies! 

Merciful  Christ,  thou  hast  followed  afar 
Under  midnight  moon,  under  evening  star, 
Treading  with  tears  through  forest  and  flood, 
And  tracing  thy  path  with  the  stains  of  blood. 

Merciful  Christ,  thou  hast  sought  me  here, 
Through  the  mountains  cold  and  the  deserts  drear; 
Merciful  Christ,  am  I  left  to  my  fate  ? 
Merciful  Christ,  hast  thou  come  too  late  ? 

I  have  heard  thy  voice  as  I  passed  along 
Through  the  reveller's  shout  and  the  siren's  song, 
Through  laughter,  through  fall  of  the  dancing  feet, 
And  the  wicked  jests  of  the  crowded  street; 

But  I  perish  alone  in  shame  and  in  sin, 
Though  I  long  to  arise  and  welcome  thee  in. 
Merciful  Christ,  I  cry  unto  thee, 
Merciful  Christ,  have  pity  on  me! 

But  the  revellers  riot,  and  the  lewd  songs  swell, 
And  they  numb  my  soul  like  a  funeral  knell; 
In  the  noisy  night,  with  its  glitter  and  glare, 
I  wring  my  hands  in  my  dark  despair. 


io2  Out  of  the  Fold. 

And  I  turn  to  thee  in  my  dumb  dismay, 
As  the  demons  cry  like  the  wolves  for  prey; 
Merciful  Christ,  shall  thy  feet  depart 
And  leave  me  alone  with  my  broken  heart  ? 

O  Shepherd,  come  with  thy  footsteps  fleet, 
With  my  falling  tears  I  shall  wash  thy  feet, 
And  thy  love  shall  lave  my  stains  of  despair, 
As  I  wipe  them  dry  with  my  streaming  hair. 


"WHEN  THOU  ART  NEAR." 

WHEN  thou  art  near,  when  thou  art  near! 
I    Life  seems  so  sweet  beside  thee,  dear. 
I  seem  to  touch  an  angel's  wing, 
I  feel  her  arms  around  me  cling; 
Within  my  heart  a  lily  blooms 
And  glimmers  through  the  mournful  glooms; 
Peace,  like  a  white  dove,  nestles  there, 
And  soothes  my  deep  and  dumb  despair, 

When  thou  art  near. 

But  when,  O  Love,  thou  art  not  near, 
I  shudder  with  a  nameless  fear; 
I  sit  my  lonely  hearth  beside, 
Where  anguish  and  despair  abide; 
I  ponder  in  the  solemn  gloom 
And  tremble  at  some  coming  doom, 
I  feel  Temptation  stealing  nigh, 
While  Sin  and  Sorrow  hover  by, 

And  thou  not  near! 

When  thou  art  near,  when  thou  art  near! 
Return  and  save,  O  save  me,  dear! 
Thou  knowest  I  am  weak  indeed, 
And  how  thy  helping  hand  I  need. 


:•',       •  •:     •   '- 

/> .        osr      ^ 


104  When   Thou  Art  Near. 

See  how  the  shadows  gather  near, 
And  beckon  thee  to  leave  me,  dear! 
O  come  to  me,  refuse  me  not! 
Then  I  may  bless  my  hapless  lot 
When  thou  art  near, 

When  thou  art  near! 


-TO  ONE  WHO  SHALL  BE  NAMELESS." 

DO  you  sometimes  think,  as  you  pass  me  by, 
That  I  follow  your  steps  with  a  stifled  sigh  ? 
Do  you  sometimes  think,  as  you  fade  from  view, 
That  my  heart  is  broken  for  loss  of  you  ? 

Will  you  think  of  me  when  the  autumn  blight 
Shall  sully  my  soul  in  the  long  years'  flight, 
When  over  my  life,  with  its  weight  of  woes, 
Shall  flutter  the  flakes  of  the  winter  snows  ? 

Will  you  think  of  me  in  the  fading  light, 
Will  you  think  of  me  in  the  solemn  night, 
When  the  songs  of  spring  and  the  summer  blooms 
All  are  asleep  in  their  silent  tombs? 

Will  you  think  of  me  when  my  hopes  have  fled, 
Will  you  think  of  me  when  my  heart  is  dead, 
Will  you  think  of  me  when  my  locks  are  gray, 
And  the  light  of  my  life  has  passed  away  ? 

Will  you  think  of  me  when  the  azure  skies 
Are  shrouded  in  gray,  like  my  eager  eyes, 
When  the  wailing  winds  the  blossoms  blow  through, 
Like  the  hapless  rhymes  that  I  write  to  you  ? 

Will  you  think  of  me  when  your  wedding  bell 
Shall  fall  on  my  ear  like  a  funeral  knell, 


io6          To   One    V/ho  Shall  be  Nameless. 

When  from  me  to  another  your  steps  depart, 
And  leave  me  alone  with  my  aching  heart  ? 

Will  you  think  of  me  on  your  wedding  night, 
While  treading  the  aisle  in  your  veil  of  white, 
When  the  music  swells  and  the  soft  lights  shine, 
And  the  bridal  blooms  in  your  tresses  twine  ? 

Will  you  think  of  me  when  you  come  at  last 
To  regret  your  choice  in  the  bitter  past, 
And  know  that  I  loved  you  far  more  than  he, 
When  a  great  gulf  severs  your  soul  from  me  ? 

Then  come  back  to  me,  my  darling,  my  sweet, 
With  your  gladsome  face  and  your  footsteps  fleet, 
With  your  springtime  joys  and  your  summer  state, 
Before  we  can  say,    ' '  Too  late,  too  late  ! ' ' 


HER  SECRET. 

AS  I  walked  through  the  fields  one  day  in  June, 
When  the  world  was  warm  with  the   richest 

of  weather, 

When  the  brooks  and  birds  and  bees  where  in  tune, 
And  Nature's  whole  heart  was  light  as  a  feather, 
I  passed  like  a  man  in  a  blissful  dream, 

Where  the   locust   boughs   with   their   clustered 

blooms 

Seemed  a  palace  of  pearl  or  a  cloud  of  cream, 
Or  a  peerless  swan  with  the  purest  plumes. 

And  then  from  the  sprays  of  the  swinging  flowers, 
A  poor  little  bird  dropped  down  at  my  feet, 

As  though  a  sharp  lance  had  shot    through    the 
bowers, 

And  taken  the  life  of  the  songster  sweet. 
She  flitted  and  fluttered  and  ambled  around, 

She  faltered  and  fled  through  the  emerald  grasses. 

She  flew  through  the  air  and  fell  on  the  ground, 
Down,  down  to  the  brook,  with  its  reedy  passes 

Said  I   "  Little  birdie,  you  can't  fool  me; 

For  I  know  full  well  where  your  nest  is  swinging. 
I  know  it  is  there  in  the  locust  tree, 

With  the  snowy  clusters  around  it  clinging. 


io8  Her  Secret. 

But  your  nest  and  its  pearls  are  safe,  my  dear, 
Be  sure,  little  bird,  I  shall  do  you  no  wrong; 

Return  to  your  tree,  sweet  bird,  never  fear, 

And   make  your  blithe    nest  bubble  over  with 
song." 

And  so  when  I  see  a  little  girl  pout, 

And  quarrel  with  him  whom  her  heart  loves  best, 
Desert  him  for  others,  run  in  and  then  out, 

I  think  of  the  bird  who  fled  from  her  nest; 
And  I  say,    "  Little  girl,  you  can't  fool  me, 

For  I  am  your  sweetheart,  my  little  white  dove: 
You  can  not  deceive  me,  for  at  last  I  see, 

The  priceless  pearl  of  your  precious  love." 


EVERYTHING  NEW  UNDER  THE  SUN." 

THE  tone  in  which  I  speak  to  thee  to-day 
Was  never  heard  in  all  the  years  of  yore; 
My  footstep  falling  as  I  reach  thy  door, 

Was  never  known  through  all  the  ages  gray: 
My  laughter,  and  my  shudder  of  dismay, 
Bear  cadence  never  breathed  on  Earth  before, 
And  having  once  been  heard,  shall  nevermore 
Be  heard  or  known,  while  ages  pass  away. 

No  lilac  ever  wore  this  same  white  wreath, 
No  rose  hath  ever  blushed  with  this  same  bloom, 

And  both  are  lost  forever  in  a  breath; 

I  whisper  soft,    "  I  love  thee,"   in  the  gloom, 

In  accents  new,  though  old  as  life  and  death, 
That  fade  from  earth  forever  in  my  tomb. 


ORPHEUS  AND  THE   SIRENS. 

THE  summer  day  waned  over  silent  seas, 
Whose   vast   expanses   stretched   without  a 

shore ; 

The  skies  extended  like  eternity, 
And  seemed  to  mingle  with  the  boundless  waves. 
All  day  the  weary  mariners  had  gazed 
To  gain  a  prospect  of  some  land,  whose  coves 
Might  be  a  haven  for  their  sea-worn  ship; 
But  still  above  and  all  around  was  naught 
Save  dreamy  skies  that  hung  o'  er  slumbering  seas. 
The  evening  slowly  waned,  the  sun  sank  low 
Above  the  waste  of  waters  in  the  west; 
And  then  behold!  between  them  and  the  sun 
A  dark  rock  rose  from  out  the  briny  waste; 
Like  to  a  towering  cloud  of  night  it  seemed, 
Where  blent  the  sapphire  sky  and  emerald  sea. 
Then  Mopsus  spoke,  gray-haired  Thessalian  seer: 
"  Beware,  beware!  it  is  the  Sirens'  isle!  " 
So  Jason  cried,    "  Turn,  turn  the  vessel's  course! 
Death  waits  us  there;  our  life  depends  on  flight. 
Toil  with  your  might,  my  oarsmen,  for  our  hopes 
Must  now  rely  upon  your  sinewy  arms." 
The    oarsmen    strained    their    limbs    with     giant 

strength, 

Their  dark  eyes  glittered  with  a  desperate  hope, 
Their  brows  were  matted  with  a  maze  of  frowns, 


Orpheus  and  the  Sirens.  1 1 1 

Their  thews  were  twisted  like  an  adder's  coils. 
But  all  for  naught!  some  fearful  fate  had  drawn 
Their  ship  within  the  current  gliding  swift 
Towards  the  jagged  rock  of  certain  death. 
Then  Orpheus  sp£)ke,  the  golden-throated  king, 
Whose  strains  were  sweeter  than   harmonious 

spheres: 

"Since  might  hath  failed,  my  music  now  mu:;t  \vin. 
Oft  have  the  warbling  birds  at  dawn  of  day 
Ceased  all  their  notes  to  listen  to  my  strains; 
Oft  have  the  woodland  dryads  stilled  their  songs, 
Abashed  before  the  sweetness  of  my  lyre; 
Apollo  hearkens  to  the  melody, 
And  merry  Hermes  pauses  in  his  flight; 
The  growling  leopard  spares  his  trembling  prey, 
The  bright-eyed  eagle  frees  the  fluttering  dove; 
Moved  by  those  liquid  notes,  the  hard  rocks  nod, 
And  leafy  trees  dance  when  the  winds  are  still." 

Lo!  on  the  summit  of  the  vaulting  rock, 
Behold  the  Siren  with  her  golden  hair! 
See  how  the  breezes  wave  the  shining  strands, 
And  clothe  her  bosom  in  a  mellow  maze! 
Now  see  her  soft  arms  clasp  the  magic  lyre, 
Her  spotless  neck  bend  o'er  its  silver  strings, 
Till,  like  the  treasure  of  the  swan's  full  nest, 
It  presses  on  her  rounded,  heaving  breast. 
And  now  the  sun  doth  kiss  the  sky  good-night, 
Until  her  cheeks  with  burning  blushes  flame; 
The  brown  crags  flush  amid  the  crimson  glow, 


H2  Orpheus  and  the  Sirens. 

The  Sirens'  fair  forms  bloom  with  ruby  rays, 
Like  white-winged  clouds  at  coming  of  the  dawn 
Enwreathed   with    roses    plucked    from    heavenly 
bowers. 

High  on  that  rock  the  beauteous  sisters  stood, 

Their  lily  fingers  twined  in  tender  clasp, 

Their  rounded  shoulders    touching,     while    their 

breasts 

Heaved  'gainst  each  other  in  a  sweet  embrace; 
Their  soft  bare  feet  gleamed  like  narcissus  flowers. 
But  all  the  sailors  shuddered  when  they  saw 
Pale,  grinning  skeletons  strewn  at  those  feet. 
But  soon  their  red  mouths  budded  into  song, 
As  blushing  blossoms  open  in  perfume; 
So  all  the  wide  sea  was  entranced,  and  all 
The  sleeping  waves  awoke  and  laughed  for  joy. 
The  regal  sun,  enchanted  in  his  course, 
Stood  still  above  the  mighty  world  of  waves, 
And  filled  the  darkest  depths  with  ruddy  light; 
The  sunburnt  sailor's  face  was  lit  with  love 
And  each  dim  eye  flashed  into  starry  flame. 
Then  from  the  Sirens'  lips  came  melting  tones, 
Like  honey-dew  that  drops  from  opening  flowers: 

AGLAIOPHEME. 

"Come,  bravest  of  heroes!  I  long  and  I  yearn 
To  fondle  and  fold  you  in  blissful  embrace, 

To  greet  you  with  songs  on  your  happy  return, 
And  cover  with  kisses  each  weary,  worn  face. 


Orpheus  and  the  Sirens.  113 

Long,  long  have  I  waited  and  watched  for  your  sails, 
Still  panting  and  pining  with  passionate  sighs; 

Desert  the  dark  ocean,  its  rocks  and  its  gales, 
And  revel  in  glory  of  love-lighted  eyes. ' ' 

THLEXIEPEA. 

*"Oh,  come  to  me,  lovers!  repose  on  my  heart! 

And  swoon  on  Love's  pillow  and    reel   with    his 

wine! 
Come,  waver  no  longer!  we  never  shall  part, 

Mine  arms  shall  forever  around  you  entwine; 
My  bosoms  are  budding  like  blossoming  bowers, 

Where  Love  hath  descended  to  build  him  a  nest, 
My  kisses  are  sweeter  than  honey-gemmed  flowers, 

And  in  my  embraces  are  rapture  and  rest. ' ' 

The  liquid  harmony  filled  all  the  air, 

As  mellow  sunlight  fills  the  summer  sky; 

The  waves  were  babbling  to  the  murmuring  winds, 

As  lisping  infants  to  their  mothers'  songs. 

So  all  the  mariners  were  mad  with  love, 

And  drunk  with  brightness  of  the  Sirens'  eyes  ; 

They  laughed  and  murmured  with  a  maniac  joy, 

And  sought  to  leap  into  the  sea  below, 

So  that  they  might  at  last  find  rest  from  toil, 

And  steep  their  senses  in  the  wine  of  love. 

But  Orpheus  stood  unmoved,  as  if  he  scorned 

To  be  enslaved  by  passion's  fierce  desire. 

He  sang  and  played,  andlo!  the  sea-waves  rose, 

And  dashed  in  playful  joy  about  his  feet; 


1 1 4  Orpheus  and  the  Sirens. 

The  gray-winged  sea-birds  perched  upon  the  mast, 
The  bright-hued  dolphin  waved  his  glittering  tail, 
The  purple  sea- weed  rocked  from  side  to  side, 
The  blue-eyed  naiads  rose  from  coral  bowers, 
Their  round  cheeks  gleaming  through  the  emerald 

surge, 

The  black  sea-snake  uncurled  his  monstrous  coils, 
Made  tame  and  harmless  by  his  wondrous  harp. 
Oh,  would  that  words  had  life,  and  verses  souls, 
To  give  a  feeble  image  of 'his  song! 

ORPHEUS. 

' '  Brave  heroes !  shall  our  honor  dim  with  rust  ? 

Shall  all  our  well-won  laurels  droop  and  fade  ? 
Shall  virtue' s  white  star  fall  into  the  dust  ? 

Shall  we  retire  to  ignominious  shade  ? 
Fame's  clarion  voice  calls  to  us  in  our  shame, 

And  sings  of  grander  diadems  to  win; 
What  warrior  here  forgets  his  glorious  name, 

And  gives  an  ear  to  words  of  shame  and  sin  ? 

"  Awake!  arise!  death  poisons  all  the  air; 

Behold  the  ghastly  skulls  that  strew  yon  shore  I 
New  triumphs  we  should  win,  new  dangers  dare, 

And  wondrous  isles  and  trackless  seas  explore. 
Think  of  the  golden  fleece  our  arms  have  won ! 

Think  of  the  mighty  giants  we  have  slain ! 
Away!  our  wondrous  deeds  are  not  yet  done! 

Elysium' s  bowers  our  feet  at  last  shall  gain ! '  * 


Orpheus  and  the  Sirens.  115 

AGLAIOPHEME. 

4 '  O  heroes,  with  passion  my  dreams  are  afire, 

Enwreathing  my  fancies  with  flowers  of  flame; 
My  pulses  are  throbbing  like  strands  of  a  lyre, 

And  leaping  with  raptures  no  mortal  can  name. 
Earth's  maidens  can  never  reward  with  such  bliss; 

No  frown  of  stern  Pallas  shall  fetter  my  charms; 
The  mother  who  hushes  her  babe  with  a  kiss 

Feels  not  the  devotion  which  thrilleth  mine  arms." 

THLEXIEPEA. 

' '  Ye  grasp  at  a  shadow  when  seeking  renown, 

And  perish  in  battle  enshrouded  in  blood; 
But  raptures  and  revels  with  Love  shall  flit  down, 

And  blessings  and  blisses  his  magic  hath  wooed. 
O  heroes,  here  endeth  the  tale  of  your  toils, 

O  wound  not  my  spirit  by  turning  away! 
In  pulses  of  passion  forget  your  turmoils, 

And  gather  the  roses  while  still  it  is  May. ' ' 

ORPHEUS. 

' '  My  comrades  brave,  list  not  unto  their  lays, 

The  voice  of  death  from  lips  of  poisonous  lust! 
The  paths  of  duty  are  the  brightest  ways, — 

Lift,  lift  your  souls,  thus  groveling  in  the  dust! 
Our  loved  ones  wait  at  home  and  watch  in  vain, 

Their  fond  eyes  tearful  in  their  lonely  gloom ; 
Let  us  return  and  soothe  their  tender  pain, 

Kissing  their  soft  cheeks  into  brighter  bloom. 


1 1 6  Orpheus  and  the  Sirens. 

' '  They  wait  beside  the  barren,  restless  sea, 

Their  dark  eyes  dimmed  with  watching  for  our 

sail ; 
Shall  we  so  heartless  and  perfidious  be, 

\s  to  forget  their  faces  pure  and  pale  ? 
How  many  eyes  will  sparkle  when  we  come! 

How  many  hearts  will  bound  with  waking  bliss! 
Let  us  return  unto  our  long-lost  home, 

For  only  there  hath  earth  its  paradise." 

His  sweet  tones  died  upon  the  raptured  waves, 
Which   moaned   and  sighed  to   lose  their  balmy 

sounds, 

And  with  the  sun  that  faded  out  of  sight 
They  left  the  lone  sea  desolate  and  dumb; 
The  dull  blank  silence  that  was  left  behind 
Fell  on  the  soul  like  stillness  of  the  grave. 
The  songs  had  ceased,  but  Orpheus'  harp  had  won, 
That  dreary  night  would  be  the  Sirens'  last! 
The  blithe  breeze  blew,   and    swelled  the  broad, 

white  sails; 

The  hapless  Sirens,  weeping  piteously, 
Gazed  with  despair  upon  the  fleeting  ship 
And  bowed  their  heads  beneath  the  shade  of  death. 
Their  golden  hair  fell  drooping  on  their  breasts, 
Their  rounded  arms  grew  cold,   their  red  cheeks 

paled ; 

Then  rose  their  death-song,  moaning  deep  and  low, 
Like  some  child's  sob,  so  woful,  tremulous, 
Or,  like  the  wail  of  chill  November  winds 


Orpheus  and  the  Sirens.  117 

Above  the  grave  of  summer's  withered  flowers, 

And  dying,  dying,  sinking,  sinking  low, 

The  Sirens'   hearts  were  stilled,     their  eyes  were 

dimmed ; 

The  shades  of  night  fell  on  the  woful  scene, 
Their  death-song  fading  in  the  gathering  gloom. 
1886. 


ETERNAL  LOVE. 

"For  when  they  shall  rise  from  the  dead,  they  neither 
marry,  nor  are  given  in  marriage;  but  are  as  the  angels 
which  are  in  heaven."— ST.  MARK  xii.  25. 

LOVE,  they  tell  me  mournful  stones  of  the  life 
beyond  the  tomb, 
Whether  spent  in  bowers  of   Eden  or    in    lower 

worlds  of  gloom; 
Thou  art  wise,  dear  love,   my  master,    though  the 

mortals  call  thee  blind, 

And  I  grope  in  tears  and  darkness;  thou  must 
now  the  pathway  find. 

Love,  they  tell  me  as  I  falter  at  the  gate-way  oi 
the  grave 

Nevermore  thy  fond  embraces  nor  thy  kisses  I  shall 
crave, 

Nevermere  shall  long  to  see  thee,  never  long  thy 
step  to  hear, 

Though  a  thousand  ages  waiting,  counting  linger 
ing  year  by  year. 

Love,  they  tell  me  in  the  caverns  of  the  Charnel's 

realms  of  gloom 
Never  blush  the  sweet  carnations  nor  the  soft  warm 

roses  bloom; 


Eternal  Love.  119 

And  that  solemn  spirits  treading  in  those  mournful 

midnight  bowers 
Only  see  the  chill  camelias  and  the  ghostly  white 

moon-flowers. 

Love,  they  tell  me  all  are  strangers  on  those  dreary, 

dreary  strands, 
And  each  passes  each  in  silence,  smiling  not  nor 

grasping  hands; 
With  those  phantoms  treading  onward,  passing  still 

each  other  by, 
Not  a  word  of  love  is  spoken,  nor  is  heard  a  laugh 

or  sigh. 

Love,  they  tell  me  high-born  ladies  and  the  knights 

in  armor  there 
Meeting  in  those  dim  recesses  only  gaze  with  chilly 

stare; 
And  that  lovers  and   their   loved   ones,   once   so 

tender,  warm,  and  true, 
Never  turn  to  look  a  moment,  passing  from  each 

other's  view. 

Love,  they  tell  me  when  those  spirits  shall  at  last 

ascend  to  heaven, 
Wisdom,  beauty,  treasures,  glory,  all  the  gifts  but 

love  are  given; 
Though  one  spirit  be  in  Eden,  one  in  Hades'  dumb 

despair, 
This  shall  know  the  other's  torment,  yet  will  never 

shed  a  tear. 


I2o  Eternal  Love. 

Love,  I  tell  thee  as  I  perish  what  my  answer,  love,, 
shall  be, 

And  my  heart  for  both  upwelling  answers  for  thy 
self  and  me — 

Nearer,  nearer,  true  love,  nearer!  gather  fast  the 
shades  of  night, 

Kiss  me,  kiss  me,  dear  love,  kiss  me!  ere  the  fading 
of  the  light. 

Though  enrobed  in  funeral  garments,  I  shall  tear 

the  shrouds  away, 
Breaking  through  the  dismal  charnel,  walled  with 

iron,  stone,  and  clay, 
Then  with  fingers  torn  and  bleeding,  pallid  face, 

and  bruised  feet, 
I  shall  wake  thee  in  the  midnight,  stealing  kisses 

warm  and  sweet. 

Love,  I  tell  thee,  should  they  give  me  Paradise  with 

all  its  bliss, 
And  I  heard  thee  calling  to  me  from  the  dark  and 

dread  abyss, 
I  would  beg  the  demon  porter  to  return  thee  to  the 

light; 
If  he  would  not,  I  would  join  thee  in  thine  anguish 

and  thy  night. 


"JESUS  WEPT." 

MY  Master  bides  not  at  the  rich  man' s  palace  on 
this  day, 
Where  mirth  and  music,  wine  and  feasting  speed 

the  hours  away; 
His  weary,  way-worn  feet  have  brought  him  to  this 

lowly  door, 

And  there  the  Prince  of  Heaven  sits  weeping  with 
the  friendless  poor. 

O  blessed  Lord,   friend  of  the   friendless,   happy 

should  they  be, 
Their  burning  grief  and  anguish  sharing  side  by 

side  with  thee! 
For  in  this  doubting  age  we  can  but  moan  and  beg 

thy  grace, 
But  can  not  see  thy  loving  tears  nor  know  thy  gentle 

face. 

Though  in  that  rich  man's  palace  swells  the  sound 
of  revelry, 

To-morrow  in  that  palace  shall  the  wail  of  anguish 
be; 

Though  in  this  poor  man's  hovel  stalks  the  horrid 
spectre  Death, 

Soon  shall  He  vanish  at  the  great  King's  life- 
inspiring  breath. 


122  Jesus    Wept. 

Oh,   wondrous  sight,    a  Monarch   sitting   in   that 

humble  cot! 
Oh,  wondrous  sight,  the  Lord  of  angels  with  this 

hapless  lot! 
Oh,  wondrous  sight,  here  treads  the  ruler  of  the 

suns  and  stars! 
Oh,  wondrous  sight,  our  God  is  weeping  at  Earth's 

prison  bars! 

I  wonder  if  his  moanings  did  not  change  to  music 

sweet, 
I  wonder  if  the  blossoms  did  not  spring  to  kiss  his 

feet, 
I  wonder  if  the  watching  angels  gathered  up  those 

tears 
And  made  them  starry  clusters,  shining  through  the 

endless  years. 

For  they  were  purer  than  the  dews  on  lilies  newly 

blown, 
And  lovelier  than  an  empress'  jeweled  diadem  they 

shone ; 
More  radiant  than  the  treasures  that  the  sea's  rich 

caves  adorn, 
More  glorious  than  the  Oriental  splendors  of  the 

morn. 

Those  blessed,  blessed  tear-drops,   falling  on  our 

dreary  dearth, 
Have  wooed  a  golden  harvest  from  the  withered 

waste  of  earth, 


Jesus    Wept.  123 

Have  melted,  too,  a  myriad  million  selfish  hearts  of 

stone, 
And   blotted  out   uncounted   sins   in  earth's  vast 

records  shown. 

And  though  a  thousand  demons  seek  to  give  thy 

cause  a  thrust, 
Those  burning  tears  have  worn  their  cruel  daggers 

into  rust! 
And  though  a  hundred  empires  at  thee  hurl  their 

gathered  powers, 
Those  holy  tear-drops,  like  a  flood,  sweep  down 

their  haughty  towers! 

And  though  a  host  of  bigots  burning  with  a  furious 

zeal 
Have  sought  to  aid  their  false  creeds  with  the  chain 

and  stake  and  wheel, 
Those  tears  have  quenched  their  fires,  torn  down 

their  mighty  iron  bars, 
Thy  cause  triumphant  still  o'er  steel  and  torch  and 

wrecks  and  wars. 

Oh,   blessed  tears,    with  rainbow  colors  yearning 

earth  illume! 
Oh,  blessed  tears,  with  lotus  flowers  make  blissful 

heaven  bloom ! 
Oh,  blessed  tears,  in  mercy  rain  on  all  the  spirits 

fell, 
And  like  a  mighty  ocean  quench  the  flaming  gates 

of  Hell! 


THE  GRAVEYARD. 

ONCE  I  feared  thee,   mournful  Monarch,    with 
thy  sad  and  solemn  dells, 

Haunted  by  the  vesper  shadows  and  the  sobbing 
funeral  bells; 

Haunted  by  the  ghostly  roses,  in  their  silken  robes 

of  white, 
And  the  mock-bird' s  mystic  singing  in  the  dim  and 

dusky  night; 

Haunted  by  the  tombs  of  marble  gleaming  through 
magnolia  leaves, 

And  the  restless  moonlight  figures  where  the  grave- 
mound  dimly  heaves. 

But  my  loved  ones  gather  with  thee  in  the  fading, 

fleeting  years, 
And  I  lay  within  thy  caverns  all  my  joys  and  hopes 

and  fears. 

Thou  hast  treasures  in  thy  bosom  richer  than  the 

ocean's  caves, 
Where  the  peerless  pearls  are  beaming  and  the 

coral  forest  waves, 

Where   the   mermaid  gathers    amber    filled    with 

mellow  golden  light, 
And  the  silver-weighted  galleons  glimmer  through 

the  emerald  night; 


The  Graveyard.  125 

Thou  hast  hearts  of  gold  within  thee,   hearts  all 

priceless  pearls  above, 
Rich  with  sweetness,  rich  with  kindness,   rich  with 

never-dying  love; 

Thou  hast  dreams  and  aspirations  sleeping  with  thy 

sheeted  dead, 
Wondrous  visions,  grand  ambitions,  from  the  earth 

forever  fled. 

Thou  hast  beauties  in  thy  bosom  blooming  under 
neath  our  feet, 

Lovelier  than  our  purple  lilies  and  our  jasmines  soft 
and  sweet; 

Thou  hast  blue-eyed,  dimpled  children,  with  their 
mazy,  golden  hair, 

Thou  hast  maids  with  brows  of  beauty,  manly  fig 
ures  sleeping  there. 

Thou  hast  wisdom  in  thy  bosom  greater  than  the 

lore  of  earth, 
Gathered  by  its  gray-haired  sages  from  the  dim 

creation's  birth; 

Thou  hast  infants  in  thy  bosom,  learned  in  secrets 

whispered  low, 
Which  our  wise  men  seek  forever,  never  find,   and 

can  not  know. 

S0j®£^ 

[tfHXVBRSITY; 


A  VANISHED  SUMMER. 

THE  dull  December  days,  with  garlands  sere, 
Bear  slowly,  sadly  on  the  dying  year; 
The  somber  hills,  veiled  in  their  mists  of  gray. 
Like  mourners  in  some  haunted  land  away, 
With  haggard  faces  view  the  last  sad  hours 
Of  him  whose  spring-time  wreathed  their  brows 

with  flowers; 

The  wild  north  winds  wail  out  a  funeral  hymn 
Amid  the  bare  boughs  of  the  forests  dim. 

Soon  will  the  chill  storms  scatter  clouds  of  snow> 
And  stinging  sleet  and  beating  hailstones  blow, 
Like  savage  Cossack  horsemen  dashing  by, 
And  fiercely  clashing  through  the  earth  and  sky; 
While  I,  amid  the  desolation,  yearn 
For  summer  days  that  never  can  return, 
Whose  mellow  skies  and  fragrant  flowers  have  per* 

ished, 
And  now  alone  within  my  heart  are  cherished. 

O  gentle  love,  those  happy  hours  are  dead! 
Our  blissful  summer  has  forever  fled! 
Yet  often  does  my  soul  amid  this  rime 
Crave  and  regret  that  long-lost  happy  time; 
The  frosty  earth  seems  budding  forth  in  flowers , 
And  liquid  bird-songs  fill  the  withered  bowers, 


A    Vanished  Summer.  127 

The  cold  gray  sky  seems  smiling  down  on  me 
When  thinking  of  our  summer  by  the  sea. 

How  I  remember  now  those  golden  days, 
Robed  in  their  dreamy,  gleaming  tropic  haze! 
The  proud  palmettos  and  the  plumy  pines, 
The  crimson  roses  and  the  trailing  vines  1 
I  see  the  green  Savannah's  leafy  glooms, 
Adorned  by  splendor  of  magnolia  blooms, 
The  blushing  oleanders,  jasmines  rare, 
And  mock-birds  warbling  in  the  ambient  air! 

How  I  remember  now  the  sparkling  sea, 
Broad  as  the  sky,  grand  as  eternity! 
How  oft  we  sported  with  its  playful  spray, 
Or  watched  the  ships  that  glimmered  far  away! 
We  saw  the  mornings  rise  from  garden  bowers, 
With  pearly  grottoes  and  with  jeweled  towers, 
The  evenings,  with  their  ruby-clustered  vines, 
Exhaling  clouds  of  misty,  mellow  wines ! 

We  saw  the  white  moon  from  the  darkness  bloom, 

A  water-lily  in  a  lake  of  gloom ! 

Then  through  the  twilight  watched  the  timid  stars, 

Led  by  the  crimson- crested  hero  Mars! 

And  then  we  told  our  old,  old  tale  of  love, 

Until  our  spirits  soared  to  skies  above, 

And  guided  by  the  splendor  of  thine  eyes, 

We  trod  with  angels  through  that  paradise. 


128  A    Vanished  Summer. 

Ah,  summer  garden,  with  the  golden  gate, 
Thy  blissful  glories  all  are  desolate; 
Thy  mellow  sunshine  now  is  lost  in  gloom, 
Thy  wondrous  blossoms  now  are  in  their  tomb; 
Ah,  summer  ocean,  with  the  playful  waves, 
Thy  tropic  splendors  slumber  in  their  graves! 
Thy  sweetest  face  is  now  forever  banished, 
Thy  sweetest  hope  hath  now  forever  vanished! 
1885. 


THE  ONE  LOVE. 

THERE  is  a  flower  I  long  to  call  mine  own, 
Most  modest,  frailest  of  the  garden's  blooms. 

Within  that  bower  the  star-like  lily  looms, 
The  queenly  rose  reigns  on  her  emerald  throne, 
The  sweet  carnation's  breath  is  softly  blown, 

The  gorgeous  tulip  flames  through  leafy  glooms. 

But  love  for  that  one  flower  my  heart  consumes; 
My  soul  craves  for  her  and  for  her  alone. 
The  world  hath  other  flowers  of  richer  hue, 

And  other  buds  will  bloom  when  these  have  fled; 
But  with  that  flower  doth  pine  my  bosom  true, 

And  ne'er  another  love  my  soul  shall  wed; 
My  faded  blossom  can  not  youth  renew; 

Nor  life  revive  my  one  love  that  is  dead. 


"HE  WHO  HATH  LOVED." 

HE  who  hath  loved  hath  borne  a  vassal's  chain, 
And  worn  the  royal  purple  of  a  king; 
Hath  shrunk  beneath  the  icy  Winter's  sting, 
Then  reveled  in  the  golden  Summer's  reign; 
He  hath  within  the  dust  and  ashes  lain, 

Then  soared  o'er  mountains  on  an  eagle's  wing; 
A  hut  hath  slept  in,  worn  with  wandering, 
And  hath  been  lord  of  castle-towers  in  Spain. 

He  who  hath  loved  hath  starved  in  beggar's  cell, 
Then  in  Aladdin's  jeweled  chariot  driven; 

He  hath  with  passion  roamed  a  demon  fell, 
And  had  an  angel's  raiment  to  him  given; 

His  restless  soul  hath  burned  with  flames  of  hell, 
And    winged   through    ever-blooming   fields  of 
heaven. 


UNSPOKEN  LOVE. 

I  DARE  not  in  thine  ears  my  secret  tell, 
And  long  in  vain  to  say,  "  I  love  thee,"  sweet. 
False  love  is  like  a  swallow,  shrill  and  fleet, 
True  love  a  mock-bird,  under  some  strange  spell, 
Who  sings  alone  where  midnight  shadows  dwell; 
One  like  a  poppy,  every  face  doth  greet, 
While  one,  which  never  mortal  eye  shall  meet, 
Doth  blossom  like  the  fadeless  asphodel. 

False  love  speaks  loudly,  like  a  fickle  wave, 
While,  like  the  deep  beneath  the  billow's  roar, 

True  love  doth  hide  its  wondrous  treasure-cave; 
One,  like  this  life,  is  changeful,  soon  is  o'er; 

While  one,  like  death,  clasps  in  his  silent  grave, 
And  keeps  his  secret,  true  forevermore. 


"THOU  LITTLE  DREAMEST." 

THOU  little  dreamest,  as  I  gaze  at  thee, 
What  visions  gather  in  mine  eager  eyes; 
Yet  all  the  glory  of  the  summer  skies 
Would  vanish  if  thy  face  I  could  not  see; 
A  dreary  desert,  where  thou  wert,  to  me 
A  wondrous  golden  city  would  arise; 
But  all  the  earth,  with  myriad  human  ties, 
A  wilderness,  without  thee,  sweet,  would  be. 

For  thee  my  heart  shall,  never  ceasing,  yearn 
Until  my  locks  with  winter  snows  are  gray; 

For  thee  its  flame  shall  ever  constant  burn 
Until  it  flickers  on  my  dying  day  ; 

To  thee,  my  darling,  it  shall  fondly  turn 
Until  it  crumbles  in  the  dust  away. 


SONNET. 

ON    MY    TWENTY-FIRST    BIRTHDAY,     FEBRU 
ARY   10,    1887. 

THE  restless  years  at  last  have  reached  this  day, 
When  youth  must  leave  me,  never  to  return, 
When  Nature's  kindly  face  grows  cold  and  stern, 
And  life  seems  short,  which  once  stretched  far  away. 
No  longer  shall  I  rove  through  fields  of  May; 
New   toils  and  cares  are  mine,   hard  truths  to 

learn, 

Which  ever  faster  fall  from  Sorrow's  urn, 
Since  life  no  longer  means  a  childish  play. 

O  Voiceless  Future!  what  fate  dost  thou  hide  ? 

Hast  thou  a  tale  of  darkness  or  of  light  ? 
Shall  sin  and  sorrow  snare  my  feet  untried, 

And  shall  I  stand  or  fall  before  their  might  ? 
But  lose  or  win,  or  weal  or  woe  betide, 

All  is  forgotten  soon  in  endless  night. 


A  BRIDAL  BALLAD. 

EARTH,  en  wreathed  in  emerald  verdure,  smiles 
in  every  dell  and  dale, 
Heaven,  enthroned  in  regal  splendor,  bends  with 

sparkling  eyes  above, 

Morn  arises  with  the  glory  of  a  wondrous  fairy-tale, 
Night  itself  is  bright  with  beauty,  when  the  heart 
is  filled  with  love. 

Spring  is  tuneful  with  the  trilling  of  a  million  merry 

birds, 
Queenly   Summer's   radiant   blossoms   flame   in 

every  field  and  grove, 
Autumn,    crowned    with    richest    fruitage,    laughs 

among  his  vines  and  herds, 

Even  gruff  and  surly  Winter  smiles  to  see  the 
face  of  love. 

Youth,    aglow    with    joys    celestial,   wreathes  his 

golden  locks  with  flowers, 
Age's   path   is   strewn    with   garlands   which   a 

loving  spirit  wove, 
Life    reclines    in     regal     beauty,     singing    under 

budding   bowers, 

Even  Death  at  last  is  conquered  by  the  gentle 
hand  of  love. 


A  Bridal  Ballad.  135 

But   the   earth   is   gray   and   wrinkled,   heaven   is 

draped  in  somber  clouds, 
Morning's  eyes  are  dim   and  tearful,   twilight's 

shadows  sadly  rove, 
All  the  year  is  dull    and    dismal,   all  its  joys  are 

in  their  shrouds, 

Life  is  but  a  funeral  journey,  to  a  heart  bereft 
of  love. 

What   is   wealth,    so    hard    and    selfish,    with   its 

heaps  of  gems  and  gold  ? 
What   is   fame,    so   false   and   fickle,    at   whose 

words  the  masses  move? 
Wealth   is    but    the   icy   grandeur   of  the    Arctic 

mountains  cold, 

Fame  a  fleeting  desert  phantom,  when  the  soul 
has  banished  love. 

But    to-day,    two    souls    united,    never    more   to 

stray  apart, 
Have    begun    their    journey    onward,    all   their 

plighted  faith  to  prove  ; 
Hope   has   robed    the    clouds   with   roses,   joy  is 

wreathing  round  each  heart, 
Every  step  is  strewn  with   lilies  from  the  fairy 
land  of  love, 

And  the  days  shall   never  darken,  nor  the  path 
way  lead  astray, 

While   affection    guides    them    onward    like    a 
gentle   snow-white   dove  ; 


136  A  Bridal  Ballad. 

Youth  shall  flit  in  fadeless  morning,  all  the  months 

be  merry  May, 
Hope  shall  never  be  deceitful,  while  their  hearts 

are  true  to  love. 
1888. 


THE  BYRON  CENTENARY— 1788-1888. 

A  HUNDRED  summers  since  his  first  birthday 
Have  shone  in  splendor,  then  have  drooped 

and  died  ; 
Earth's  fond  old  heart  has  throbbed  with  joyous 

pride 

To  greet  them  with  their  garlands  green  and  gay, 
And  ached  with  anguish  as  they  passed  away. 
But   brightest    summer    decked    her   kingdoms 

wide 

When  unto  Byron's  lyre  her  mounts  replied — 
He  perished,  and  her  fields  were  sere  and  gray. 

Her  sweetest  buds  were  blooming  when  he  came, 
But  fading  as  his  footsteps  turned  to  leave. 

Among  her  sons  is  many  a  mighty  name, 

But  none   like   him,   the   reckless,    bright,    and 
brave. 

He  died,  like  music  in  a  glorious  dream, 

And  Love's  own  heart  was  laid  in  Byron's  grave. 


A   WEDDING  SONG. 

TWO  roses  nestling  in  one  blissful  bower, 
Two  dew-drops  in  the  bosom  of  a  flower, 
Two  sweet   birds   singing    songs  of   soft   delight* 
Two  stars  that  meet  in  glittering  fields  of  night, 
Two  roseate  clouds  that  mingle  far  above, — 
Such  is  the  union  of  true  hearts  that  love  ! 

Our  hopes  are  lovely  in  the  morn  of  life, 
But  soon  they  perish  in  the  harsh  world's  strife  ; 
The  sparkling  wine- cup  on  the  festal  night 
But  sears  the  soul  with  baleful  blast  and  blight. 
Our  dearest  pleasures  soon  shall  cease  to  move — 
Earth  hath  no  perfect  joy  save  precious  love. 

With  pearly  treasures  gathered  from  the  sea, 
Or  starry  gems  from  desert  Araby, — 
With  golden  heaps  from  India's  wondrous  caves, 
Brought  to  their  master  by  a  thousand  slaves, 
The  owner  turns  from  that  for  which  he  strove 
And  feels  but  poor  without  some  one  to  love. 

As  through  chill  mists  around  the  wanderer's  way 

The  sunshine  steals  to  warm  the  dreary  day  ; 

As  through  the  Winter  night's  enshrouding  gloom 

Soft  Spring  returns  in  all  her  maiden  bloom  ; 

So  heaven  comes  like  some  pure  white-winged  dove 

To  bless  the  humblest  cot  where  bides  true  love. 


A    Wedding-  Song.  139 

May  all  your  troubles  be  but  April  showers 
To  strew  the  way  with  rich  and  radiant  flowers  ! 
May  angels  hover  with  their  outspread  wings 
To  shield  the  nest  where  fond  affection  clings  ! 
May  blessings  flit  where'er  your  feet  may  rove, 
And  summer  splendors  wreathe  the  path  of  love  ! 


THE  FIRST  TRANSGRESSION. 

EVE,   sweet   tempter,    lovely  sinner,    God  hath 
cursed  the  deed  which  thou  hast  done, 
Paradise  is  lost  forever,  and   the  stricken  world's 
woes  have  begun. 

Over  Eden's  eastern  mountains  flame  the  purple 

glories  of  the  morn, 
Welcomed  by  the  waking  warblers  and  the  dewy 

blossoms  newly  born. 

But  I   see  the  leaflets  trembling,   and  I   hear  the 

quivering  breezes  sigh, 
Feeling  that  for  thy  transgression  thou  and  I  and 

all  the  world  must  die. 

Yet  a  spirit  whispers  to  me  that  to  save  the  world 

'  tis  not  too  late, 
If  I  turn  my  heart  against  thee,  sin  not,  and  desert 

thee  to  thy  fate. 

Then  the  fleeting  years  would  scatter  pallid  autumn 

lilies  on  thy  tomb, 
I,  thy  consort,  live  forever,  radiant  with  immortal 

youthful  bloom. 

Then   mayhap   the   great   Creator  would  another 

woman  mould  for  me; 
I  might  twine  her  locks  with  roses,  give  her  kisses 

that  I  once  gave  thee. 


The  First   Transgression.  141 

But  I  could  not,  wondrous  being!  for  thy  smiles  and 

wistful,  pleading  tears 
Still  would  follow,  hunt  and  haunt  me  through  the 

maze  of  never-dying  years. 

Night's  dim  shades  would  find  me  ever  lying  by  the 

bride  I  could  not  save, 
And  the  piping  birds  at  morning  still  would  find  me 

weeping  at  thy  grave. 

Earth  would  be  a  barren  kingdom  when,  without 

my  queen,  to  rest  I  stole, 
Life  eternal,  bitter  anguish,  if  I  lost  the  idol  of  my 

soul. 

Thou  hast  conquered,  sweet  enchantress!  I  forsake 

the  fields  of  Paradise 
For  thy  bosom's  realm  of  rapture  and  the  blissful 

glory  of  thine  eyes. 

It  is  done!  I  see  the  tiger,  maddened,  eyes  ablaze, 
come  creeping  hither! 

It  is  done!  The  birds  cease  singing,  and  our  glori 
ous  garden  bowers  wither! 

So   my  sons   shall   ruin   empires,   cast  away  their 

honor,  treasures,  fame, 
Sink  to  hell  and  turn  from  heaven,  when  a  woman 

bids  them  share  her  shame. 


GLADSTONE. 

1886. 

ATHERING  snows  of  six-and-seventy  winters 

whiten  on  thy  lofty  brow, 
Gathering    glooms    of   six-and-seventy   winters 

hover  round  thy  proud  eye's  fire, 
And  the  mournful  twilight  hoary  clouds  thy  life 
time's  gentle  sunset  glow, 

While   thy  hopes,   once   so  triumphant,   in  the 
shadow  of  the  tomb  expire. 

But  above  that  waste  of  systems,  strewn  with  ruins 

of  the  grand  and  great, 
Streams   thy   banner,    still   resplendent,    as    the 

morning  flames  through  dusky  night, 
Like  a  star  thine  eye  still  flashes,  leading  legions 

never  to  retreat, 

And  thy  form  is  still  unbending,  battling  in  the 
burnished  mail  of  Right. 

Thou  that  scornest  empty  titles  where  the   heart 

and  soul  are  false  and  low, 
Thou  that  rendest  chains  of  tyrants,   forged  in 

feudal  dungeons  of  the  past, 
Soon  thine  arms  shall  be  victorious,  soon  thy  hand 

shall  deal  a  deadly  blow, 

And  the  crowned  oppressor's  cohorts  scatter  as 
before  the  autumn  blast. 


Gladstone.  1 43 

England's  proudest  kings  are  peasants  placed  beside 

thy  peerless,  princely  mein, 
And  their  diadems  are  dimmer  than  the  shadow 

of  thy  sunlike  fame; 
Thy  crown  jewels  are  the  tear-drops  of  the  grateful 

emerald  ocean  queen, 

And  her  never-fading  garlands  shall  forever  deck 
thy  hallowed  name. 

Through  the  years  shall  live  thy  trophies,  when  thy 

soul  hath  rent  its  mortal  bars, 
When  Napoleon's  arch  of  triumph  in  the  gather 
ing  dust  of  time  shall  lie, 
With  a  splendor  never  waning,  like  the  wondrous 

never-dying  stars, 

When  the  old  earth's  proudest  empires  like  a 
morning  mist  have  glimmered  by. 


DYNAMITE. 

WELL  may  ye  shudder  at  my  name  and  curse 
my  hour  of  birth, 
Ye  tyrants,   hoarding  misers,  lords,  and  rulers  of 

the  earth! 
For  my  hoarse  voice  will  never  soothe  your  ears 

with  flattery, 

But  always  bears  unwelcome  news  unto  the  powers 
that  be. 


We  can  not  love  each  other's  ways,  born  under 
differing  stars, 

Ye  under  regal  Hesper's  beams,  I  under  smoulder 
ing  Mars; 

Ye  came  into  the  world  bedecked  in  silks  and  gems 
and  gold, 

I  came  in  rags  and  tatters,  wild  with  hunger  and 
with  cold. 

I  woke  in  stony  dungeon  cell,  barred  from  the 
cheerful  light, 

Was  fostered  in  the  solemn  shades  of  misery's  ten 
fold  night, 

For  golden  chains  were  links  of  steel,  for  diamonds, 
tears  of  woe, 

For  rubies  I  had  drops  of  blood  brought  by  the 
tyrant's  blow. 


Dynamite.  1 45 

"But  I  will  heed  no  master's  call,  I  never  bend  a 

knee, 
Though  despots  seek  to  chain  me  down,  I  go  forever 

free; 
For  in  my  sinews  dwells  the  might  of  earthquake 

and  of  storm, 
And  jagged  lightnings  burst  their  bonds,  hurled  by 

my  giant  arm. 

The  massive  feudal   castles,    knit  with   blocks    of 

granite  stone, 
I  heave  on  Titan  shoulders  till  their  turrets  rock  and 

groan, 
The  walls  built  in  a  hundred  years  fall  as  I  lift  my 

hand, 
And  paiace  towers  by  my  breath  are  scattered  like 

the  sand. 

And  yet  I  bring  with  me  a  boon  to  weary  human 
kind, 

And  welcome  is  my  awful  arm  to  free  heroic  mind; 

I  tear  the  bolts  from  cells  of  woe  and  want  and 
slavery, 

In  freezing  mines,  to  lone  exiles,  I  whisper  "  Thou 
art  free!" 

Ye  princes  of  the  earth,  your  dungeons  shall  restore 

their  prey, 
And  bleak  Siberia's  dens  shall  feel  the  golden  light 

of  day. 


1 46  Dynamite. 

Your  gold  can  bribe  me  not,  I  fling  your  chains 

away  to  rust; 
I  sweep  the  earth  with  giant  gales — remember  ye 

are  dust! 
1886. 


SHELLEY. 

1792-1892. 

HE  came  amongst  us,  wandering  from  on  high, 
Like  golden-haired  Apollo,  long  ago, 
To  share  with  us  our  lives  and  labors  low, 
And  gaze  with  longing  on  his  native  sky; 
To  sing  sweet  songs  whose  strains  shall  never  die 
For  weary  mortals  on  their  paths  of  woe; 
To  cause  a  golden  city' s  walls  to  grow 
By  magic  of  his  heavenly  harmony. 

But  now  the  singer  hath  forever  flown, 
And  left  us  beating  still  our  prison  bars; 

His  spirit  over  midnight's  jeweled  zone 
Returned  to  reign  with  Mercury  and  Mars 

With  Cassiopeia  on  her  dazzling  throne, 

And  dusk  Orion  crowned  with  sparkling  stars. 


WILL  HUBBARD  KERNAN. 

THOU  art  the  poet  of  the  realms  of  Night, 
Of  anguish,  desolation,  and  despair. 
Like  stern-browed  Orcus  leaping  from  his  lair, 
While  Enna's  blossoms  withered  in  their  fright, 
Thou  treadest  through   the   earth  with   blast   and 

blight, 

The  sweet  muse  from  her  gardens  glad  to  tear, 
That  she  thy  mournful  kingdom's  gloom   may 

shar 
A  bride  enrobed  in  funeral  garb  of  white. 

She  roams  our  fields  when  Spring  is  rich  and  green, 
And  when  the  golden  Summer  crowns  the  years; 

But  when  the  Autumn's  haggard  face  is  seen, 
And  icy  Winter's  stormy  brow  uprears, 

Returns  to  be  Death's  sad  and  solemn  queen, 
With  thee,  weird  king  of  terrors  and  of  tears. 


A  MODERN  JULIET. 

IF  thou  dost  love  me,  and  I  love  thee  too, 
Wilt  let  them  take  thy  sweetheart  from  thy  side? 
If  I  am  for  thee,  who  can  be  thy  foe  ? 
If  I  am  willing,  wilt  thou  be  denied  ? 

Ah,  laggard  love,  I  pine  in  lonely  halls, 
With  hateful  traitors  thee  and  me  between; 

Wilt  thou,  my  loyal  subject,  scale  these  walls, 
And  liberate  thy  hapless  captive  queen  ? 

'  Tis  true  no  swords  or  spears  surround  my  court, 
But  worldly  craft  is  now  the  sentinel; 

'Tis  true  I'm  guarded  not  by  fleet  and  fort, 
But  Wealth  and  Avarice  watch  my  prison  cell. 

Yet  in  that  fortress  thou  hast  friendly  hands, 
Two  little  rebels,  who  will  steal  its  key, 

With  potions  lull  to  sleep  the  sentry  bands, 
And  then  betray  the  castle  unto  thee. 

Oh,  fear  no  foe;  naught  can  withstand  thy  powers 
When  thou  dost  love,  and  I  thy  love  return ; 

To  steal  a  kiss  Love  breaks  through  stony  towers, 
And  Love  to  win  Love  laughs  the  world  to  scorn. 


150  A  Modern  Juliet. 

He  loves  not  who  hath  not  the  heart  to  dare 
The  woman  that  he  loves  from  foes  to  take; 

She  loves  not  who  will  not  his  portion  share, 

Though  forced  to  give  the  whole  world  for  his 
sake. 

Wilt  raise  the  siege,  and  bid  thy  hosts  depart, 
When  I'd  surrender  if  Ihou  shouldst  command  ? 

When  God  hath  given  unto  thee  my  heart, 
Wilt  let  a  mortal  rob  thee  of  my  hand  ? 

Then  take  the  kiss  I  long  to  give  to  thee, 

And  spite  the  scheming,  envious  world  outside; 

I  all  in  all  to  thee,  and  thou  to  me, 

With  Love  our  world,  a  kingdom  rich  and  wide. 


THE  PRINCE'S  WEDDING. 

1AM  standing  here  forsaken  in  my  lonely  attic 
room, 

Hair  disheveled,  lips  contorted,   fierce  eyes  glaring 
in  the  gloom. 

In  the  streets  I  hear  the  shouting  of  the  gay  and 

giddy  throng, 
Mad  with  mirth  and  mad  with  music,  sweeping  like 

a  flood  along; 

Streaming  under  silken  banners,  under  leafy  arches 

green, 
Strewing  roses  in  the  pathway  of  the  nation's  future 

queen ; 

Here  they  come  in  festal  raiment,   eyes  aglow  and 

faces  bright! 
Mounted  guards  with  gilded  trappings,   beauteous 

maids  bedecked  in  white! 

Here  they  come,  the  little  children,  in  their  holiday 

attire! 
Here  they  come,  the  bands  of  music,  setting  every 

heart  afire! 


152  The  Prince 's    Wedding. 

But  my  bosom  aches  with  anguish,   and  I  long  in 

vain  to  die, 
As  my  startled  babe  awakens  with  a  painful,  piteous 

cry. 

Ah,  my  babe,  my  helpless  outcast!  now  my  shame, 

though  once  my  joy, 
Pierce  me  not  with  fiercer  tortures;  hush  thee,  hush 

thee,  pretty  boy! 

Thou  shouldst  be  a  prince,  my  darling,  robed  in- 
silken  garments  soft, 

Not  in  lowly  rags  and  tatters  in  this  squalid  attic 
loft; 

I  should  be  a  queen,    my  darling,   wreathed  with 

dazzling  diadems, 
On  a  golden  throne  reclining,   jeweled   o'er   with 

starry  gems. 

For  the  prince,  boy,  is  thy  father,  thou  and  I  should 

share  his  name, 
But  the  traitor  now  hath  spurned  us,  hurling  us  to 

scorn  and  shame. 

Now  the  city  shouts  his  praises  on  his  merry  wed- 

ding-day, 
While  the  woman  he  hath  ruined  crouches  trembling 

in  his  way! 


The  Prince 's    Wedding.  153 

Man  may  dye  his  brow  with  crimson,  yet  may  wear 

a  lily  wreath, 
And  may  hide  his  hateful  treason  like  a  dagger  in 

its  sheath; 

Woman,  having  once  worn  scarlet,  nevermore  shall 

wear  the  white 
Till  the  pallid  shroud  enfolds  her  in  the  charnel's 

cheerless  night. 

See    the    nuptial's    grand    procession,     marching 

proudly  in  the  sun, 
Heedless  of  thy  wailing  mother  with  her  shame  and 

sin  undone! 

See  the  beauteous   bride   my  darling!     She   who 

stole  thy  father's  love! 
See  her,  robed  in  spotless  garments,  like  a  peerless, 

snow-white  dove! 


See  my  loved  one  there  beside  her!     See  his  eyes 

with  rapture  fill ! 
O  my  prince,  my  lord,  my  master,  how  I  love  thee, 

love  thee  still! 

How  I  crave  one  look  of  pity,    how  I  crave  one 

farewell  sweet  ! 
How  I  long  to  cry  unto  thee,  how  I  long  to  kiss 

thy  feet  ! 


154  The  Prince  s    Wedding. 

0  my  prince,  my  God,  remember,   thou  didst  once 

my  love  return, — 

But  thou  wilt  not  hear  or  heed  me  as  with  mad 
dened  heart  I  yearn. 

Hark,    the   wedding   bells    are   pealing  !      She   is 

stealing  him  from   trie ! 
Curses  on  thee,  happy  maiden,    how  I  envy,  envy 

thee  ! 

Hark,  the  wedding-bells  ring  faster  !     I  am  thrilled 

with  madness  dire  ! 
Hark,   the   throbbing   peals  grow  louder  !     Heart 

and  soul  are  all  afire  ! 

1  am   furious,    frantic,    frenzied,    as    I    clutch   my 

dagger's  hilt ; 

I  am  coming,  coming,  coming  !     Tremble,  tremble 
in  thy  guilt  ! 

Now  I  hurl  my  wailing  infant  in  thy  rearing  horse's 

path  ! 
Now  my  dagger  in  thy  bosom  quenches  swift  it's 

flaming  wrath  ! 

It  is  done  !     My  babe  lies  mangled  underneath  the 

horse's  feet  ! 
It  is  done  !    Thou  liest  bleeding,  dying  in  my  arms, 

my  sweet  ! 


The  Prince' s    Wedding.  155 

Now  I  hear  the  hammers  ringing  as  the  gallows 

rises  there  ; 
They  have  tied  my  hands  behind  me,  they  have 

shorn  my  waving  hair. 

Now  I  see  the  noose  adjusted,  as  they  bring  the 

sable  hood  ; 
Now  I  see  the  rabble  gather,  as  they  clamor  for  my 

blood. 

But,  my  prince,    I  still  have  conquered,  thou  art 

mine  for  evermore  ! 
Thou  canst  not,  my  sweet,  evade  me,  I  shall  leave 

thee  nevermore  ! 

Though  thy  soul  should  soar  to  heaven,  and  should 

pass  the  pearly  gate, 
And   the    angels    should    surround    thee,    in   thy 

splendor  and  thy  state, 

I  would  knock  upon  those  portals,  like  a  ghost 

from  haunted  lands, 
And  thy  heart  should  quake  with  terror  at  those 

beating,   bony  hands. 

I  would  come  with  funeral  garments  as  beneath  the 

gallows  drest, 
I  would  show  my  murdered  infant,  bleeding  on  my 

pulseless  breast, 


156  The  Prince's    Wedding. 

Glazed  eyes  from  sockets  starting,  lips  protruding, 

they  should  see, 
And  my  neck  with  blue  rings  circled,  where  the 

hangman  strangled  me. 

From  thy  kindly  Saviour's  bosom  I  thy  shuddering 

soul  would  tear, 
And  mine  arms  should  clasp  around  thee,  dragging 

thee  to  Hell's  despair, 

Through  the  wilds  below  to  wander,  lost  to  light 

and  lost  to  hope, 
Thou  and  I  bound  fast  forever  by  the  hangman's 

hempen  rope. 

Though  the  servile  world  hath  crowned  thee,  thou 

at  last  shalt  share  my  shame; 
Though  the  worldly  priests  absolve  thee,  thou  shalt 

share  my  couch  of  flame. 


ELIZABETH    AND    ESSEX. 

FORGIVE  thee,  writhing,  gasping  viper,  doomed, 
despairing  soul  ? 
Forgive  thee,  heartless  traitor,   who  from  me  my 

Essex  stole  ? 
I  tell  thee,  dying  woman,  as  the  death-dews  gather 

chill, 

I  loathe  thy  face — God   may  forgive  thee,   but  I 
never  will. 

The  weary,    weary   years   that  part  me  from  my 

Essex'  side 
Have  vanished,  and  I  live  again  the  hapless  day  he 

died; 
The  dead  Past  rises  with  its  ghastly  visage  from  the 

tomb, 
As  on  that  awful  morning  when  my  Essex  met  his 

doom. 

I  see  the  scaffold  looming  dimly  on  that  dreadful 

day, 
To  which  my  darling  Essex  soon  must  wend  his 

woeful  way  ; 
I  see  the  headsman  standing  masked  in  black  and 

draped  in  red, 
With   cruel   steel   axe  gleaming,    hungry  for   my 

Essex'  head. 


158  Elizabeth  and  Essex. 

His  locks  which  oft  I  fondled  soon  must  roll  into 

dust, 
His   soft   cheeks   whiten   at    the   sharpened   axe's 

ponderous  thrust, 
The  lips  I  kissed  so  often  soon  be  bleeding,    chill 

and  stark, 
His  bright  eyes,  that  I  worshipped,  soon  be  closed 

and  dim  and  dark. 

O  Essex,  Essex!  I  am  waiting,   longing  to  forgive? 
O  Essex,  Essex!  stifle  struggling  pride,  consent  to 

live! 
O  Essex,  Essex!  hearken,  let  not  Death  come  in 

between! 
O  Essex,  Essex!  hear,  oh,  hear  thy  true  love  and 

thy  queen! 

Alas !  he  hears  not,  and  he  will  not  send  me  back 

the  ring, 
Whose  golden  circlet  would  have  made  the  fettered 

captive  king. 
And  now  my  heart  is  withered,  life  is  choked  with 

agony, 
For  Essex  treads  the  scaffold,   there  to  bow  his 

head  and  die. 

Since  then  the  birds  of  Spring-time  sing  in  vain  to 

soothe  my  woe, 
Since  then  the  Summer  blossoms  lighten  not  my 

footsteps  slow, 


Elizabeth  and  Essex.  159 

Since  then  the  winds  of  Autumn  taunt  me  with  his 

dying  wail, 
Since  then  the  snows  of  Winter  haunt  me  with  his 

visage  pale. 

A  thousand  blushing  maidens  in  my  realms  stroll 

forth  to-day 
To  meet  fond  lovers  who  will  woo  them  on  their 

happy  way, 
While  I,  their  queen  becrowned,  bejeweled,  wildly 

wring  my  hands, 
For  my  true  lover  wandering  in  the  cheerless  spirit 

lands ! 

Can  I  forgive  thee,    who  didst  hide  from  me  the 

fatal  ring  ? 
Can  I  forgive  thee,  traitor  to  my  love,  my  lord,  my 

king? 
No,  I  will  curse  thee  as  thou  diest,   like  a  demon 

fell, 
And  when  I  follow  I  will  hound  thee  through  the 

fields  of  hell. 

Forgive  thee,  writhing,  gasping  viper,  doomed,  de 
spairing  soul  ? 

Forgive  thee,  heartless  traitor,  who  from  me  my 
Essex  stole  ? 

I  tell  thee,  dying  woman,  as  the  death-dews  gather 
chill, 

I  loathe  thy  face — God  may  forgive  thee,  but  I 
never  will. 


MY  QUEEN 

THERE  is  but  one  maid  whom  my  soul  doth 
love, 

And  she  is  sweeter  than  a  budding  flower. 
She  standeth  in  a  haughty  castle  tower, 
And  sees  me,  burdened  vassal,  from  above; 
Through  marble  halls  of  wealth  her  footsteps  move, 
While  want  and  famine  round  my  rude  hut  lower; 
She  reigneth  in  a  wondrous  royal  bower, 
While  I,  an  outcast,  on  the  highway  rove. 

But  oft  beneath  the  mellow,  mazy  moon 
I  sing  her  love-songs  till  the  morning  light; 

Oft  steal  we  through  the  blooming  fields  of  June, 
And  there,  in  secret,  lovers'  pledges  plight; 

Sweet  Poesie!  the  splendor  of  my  noon, 
My  rose  of  morning,  and  my  star  of  night. 


WHEN  I  GET  RICH. 

"\A/HEN  l  get  rich>  when  l  get  rich'"  J 

V  V  whisper  to  my  heart, 

"  O'er  scattered  roses  thou  shalt  on  thy  march  of 

triumph  start, 
Thy  golden  visions  evermore  shall  fold  their  fickle 

wings, 
And  lead  me,  robed  in  purple,  through  the  halls  of 

queens  and  kings. 

4  'As  some  wan,  wasted  flower,  beneath  the  parch 
ing  desert  skies, 

Hath  fainted  with  the  fervor  till  the  rain-drops  ope 
its  eyes, 

And  as  in  tearful  dreams  one  sees  a  sweet  face  long 
denied, 

And  starts,  awakens,  finds  the  loved  one  sitting  by 
his  side, 

"So  thou,  poor,  weak,  discouraged  heart,  with 
wistful  waiting  sore, 

Shalt  waken,  and  thy  yearning  shall  be  soothed  for 
evermore; 

For  I  shall  conquer  Fortune,  heartless,  ever-change 
ful  witch, 

Thy  hopes  shall  all  be  granted  when  thy  master 
shall  be  rich!" 


1 62  When  I  Get  Rich. 

But  this  I've  whispered  vainly  to  my  heart  a  thou 
sand  times 

In  youthf.il  years  long  perished  and  through  age's 
curfew  chimes, 

As  some  fond  mother,  kissing  back  the  sobs  and 
childish  tears, 

With  wondrous  fairy-stories  lulls  her  little  loved 
one's  fears. 

4 '  My  castle  turrets  shall  arise  above  a  craggy  height, 
Around  them  in  the  heavens  kingly  eagles  wing 

their  flight, 
With  winding  rivers,  lakes,  and  fields,   and  forests 

far  below, 
Their  ancient  summits  blooming  in  the  morning's 

crimson  glow." 

But  now  my  castle  crumbles,  through  its  halls   the 

ravens  wing, 
Around  its  ruined  columns  mournful  ivy  tendrils 

cling; 
I  see  its  haggard  turrets  gleam  like  spectres  of  the 

night, 
I  see  its  ghastly  windows  blindly  stare  at  morning's 

light. 

' '  When  I  have  treasures  I  shall  win  for  thee  thy 

maiden  sweet, 
And    thou,     poor   heart,    discouraged!    shalt   not 

wither  at  her  feet; 


When  I  Get  Rich.  163 

With  wreaths  of  starry  diamonds  I  shall  deck  her 

golden  hair, 
Her  beauty   shall   surrender,    she  shall  save  thee 

from  despair!  " 

Ah  me!  my  poor  heart  waited  vainly  for  that  happy 

day, 

A.  richer  lover  won  her,  bore  the  maiden  far  away; 
Another's  are  the  kisses  that  I  loved  to  think  were 

mine, 
Another's  fingers  fondly  in  her  locks  those  circlets 

twine. 

' '  My  sword  shall  conquer  empires,  and  my  sceptre 

awe  the  earth, 
My  kingdom  grandest,    broadest,    since  the  gray 

creation's  birth, 
My  wisdom  rise  triumphant  o'er  the  secret  of  the 

tomb, 
My  fame  still  thunder  onward  till   the  judgment 

dawn  of  doom." 

Alas !  mine  eyes  were  lustrous,  but  their  morning 

splendor  dies, 
Youth's  feet  are  winged  like  eagles,   and  away  he 

fleetly  flies; 
So  now   I   falter  feebly  with  the  bleeding,    dying 

day, 
My  promise   still   is   broken,    and   my   locks   are 

growing  gray ! 


1 64  When  I  Get  Rich. 

"When  I  get  rich,  when  I  get  rich!  "     Poor  heart, 

believe  it  not! 
I'll  keep  one  promise  only:  thou  shalt  share  the 

common  lot; 
Beside  thy  dead  dreams  lying,   in  some  charnel's 

dusty  niche, 
At  last  thou' It  slumber  equal  to  the  haughty  and 

the  rich. 


THE  POSTMAN. 

POSTMAN,  postman,  what  hast  thou  for  me  ? 
Shall  there  never  end  to  waiting  be  ? 
Postman,  postman,  hast  the  letter  there 
Giving  me  to  rapture  or  despair  ? 

Bearing  letters  full  of  golden  light, 
Bearing  letters  full  of  mournful  night, 
Bearing  letters  full  of  Summer  bloom, 
Bearing  letters  full  of  Winter  gloom ! 

Bearing  letters  full  of  hope  and  cheer, 
Bearing  letters  full  of  doubt  and  fear, 
Bearing  letters  like  a  gathered  sheaf, 
Garnered  gladness,  thorns  and  tares  of  grief ! 

Thou  dost  bring  to  grasping  misers  old, 
Gleaming  heaps  of  silver  and  of  gold, 
Thou  dost  tell  the  broken  merchant' s  heart 
News  of  loss  and  panic  on  the  mart. 

In  some  attic,  to  a  humble  door, 
Where  doth  dwell  some  striving  soul  obscure, — 
Struggling  genius  with  an  unknown  name, — 
Thou  dost  bring  a  poet's  regal  fame. 

In  some  palace  to  a  sceptred  king, 
Thou  dost  desolating  tidings  bring, 


*66  The  Postman. 

And  he  trembles,  hearing  thee  repeat 
News  of  wreck  and  ruin  and  defeat. 

Thou  dost  all  the  prisoner's  woe  dispel, 
Bringing  news  of  pardon  to  his  cell, 
Thou  dost  stab  a  mother's  bounding  joy, 
Bringing  farewells  from  her  dying  boy. 

Postman,  postman,  here  in  doubt  I  rove! 
Bring  me  kisses  from  the  maid  I  love. 
Bid  her  light  the  darkness  of  despair 
With  a  ringlet  from  her  golden  hair! 


BYRON. 

HIS  heart  was  moulded  in  the  weakness  of  the 
crumbling  dust  and  clay, 

Yet  mighty  as  the  summit  of  some  giant  granite 
mountain  gray; 

His   fancy   twined   the   blushing  roses   round   the 

crystal  cup  of  mirth, 
Then  like  a  fleeting  phantom  wandered  through 

the  desert's  parching  dearth; 

Within   his  portals   Love  was  throned  in  richest 

Oriental  state, 
While  at  his  doorway  crouched  the  thistles  and  the 

loathsome  weeds  of  hate; 

His  spirit  knew  not  Spring-time's  songsters,  nor 
her  dewy,  waking  flowers, 

But  loved  the  sad  magnificence  of  Autumn's  gor 
geous  dying  bowers; 

His   feet  were  strangers  to  the  purple  morning's 

palaces  of  light, 
But  haunted  vistas  where  the  twilight's  tearful  eyes 

grew  dim  with  night. 


1 68  Byron. 

The  world  hath  grander,    purer  bards,    like  Alps 

enthroned  on  spotless  snow, 
While  he,  like  raging  ^Etna,  flames  forever  with  a 

fevered  glow; 

But   round   their   chilly   crowns    of  ice   the    timid 

blossoms  fear  to  twine, 
Whilst  'midst  his  lavas  spring  the  olive  and  the 

purple-clustered  vine. 

The  world  hath  poets  who  from  tears  and  thraldom- 
rose  to  royal  fame, 

While  he  from  state  descended  to  assume  the  bard's 
and  patriot's  name; 

They  with  the  spell  of  old  Timotheus  raised  their 
muses  to  the  sky, 

While  he,  like  Saint  Cecilia,  drew  his  seraph  earth 
ward  from  on  high ; 

His  name,  though  pierced  by  despot's  dagger  and 

the  envious  bigot's  thrust, 
Shall  live  when  Europe's  tongues  are  silenced  and 

the  lips  that  spake  them  dust. 


TO  DR.  J.  J.  WHEAT. 

THERE  is  a  wondrous  power  in  earthly  song, 
Whose  eagle  spirit  soars  to  Paradise, 
Too  free  and  happy  for  this  world  of  wrong, 

Too  grand  and  glorious  for  our  clouded  skies. 
The  liquid  bird-notes  at  the  dawn  of  day, 

The  laughing  winds  that  kiss  the  budding  flowers, 
Breathe  echoes  of  an  Eden  far  away, 

And  sing  the  beauties  of  its  fadeless  bowers. 
Our  yearning  hearts  leap  forth  with  them  to  soar, 

And  by  their  airy  wings  are  borne  on  high; 
We  break  the  chains  of  clay  which  once  we  wore, 

And  feel  too  happy  for  a  tear  or  sigh, 

But  eloquence  like  thine  can  sway  the  mind 

More  strongly  than  the  trumpet's  loftiest  peal, 
More  deeply  than  the  moaning  midnight  wind, 

More  sweetly  than  the  witching  wavelet's  spell. 
The  organ's  grand  triumphant  harmony 

Moves  not  the  soul  more  than  thy  swelling  voice, 
The  master-singer's  notes  that  mount  on  high 

Have  not  more  power  to  make  man's  heart  re- 
rejoice. 
And  like  Arion  singing  to  the  sea, 

Till  gathering  dolphins  shone  like  rainbow  clouds, 
I  marvel  as  thou  bringest  forth  for  me 

Sweet   dreams   and   visions   out   of  tombs  and 
shrouds. 


I  yo  To  Dr.  J.  J.    Wheat. 

When  listening  to  thee,  Fancy  breaks  her  bars, 

And  follows  in  thy  free,  unbounded  flight; 
She  wends  her  way  beyond  the  farthest  stars, 

And  bathes  her  pinions  in  eternal  light. 
We  wander  with  thee  by  blue  Galilee, 

Where  every  wavelet  sings  a  sacred  song; 
The  vine-clad  rocks  of  Nazareth  we  see, 

Where  Jesus,  weak  and  foot-sore,  passed  along. 
We  see  poor  Mary  shedding  bitter  tears, 

Which  wash  forever  all  her  sins  away, 
And  then  the  woman  at  the  well,  who  hears 

Of  that  unfailing  fount  which  springs  in  endless 
day. 


A  VISION  IN  ASHES. 

THE  flames  flicker  low  on  the  shadowed  hearth, 
The  cricket's  quaint  carol  is  faintly  ringing; 
My  heart,  like  the  flames  as  they  leap  from  earth, 

Through  vistas  in  dream-land  is  swiftly  winging. 
I  think  of  the  hours  in  the  spectral  past, 

Whose  echoes  are  softly  and  sadly  sighing; 
Once  more  through  the  vales  of  that  elf-land  vast 
I  wander  through  bowers,  now  dead  or  dying. 

I  think  of  my  youth,  with  its  eager  eyes, 

Its  royal  romances  forevermore  vanished; 
I  think  of  my  hopes,  with  their  morning  skies, 

Whose  fancies  have  faded,    whose  blossoms  are 

banished; 
I  think  of  my  castles,  now  sunk  in  decay, 

Uprearing  gaunt  ruins  through  dead  years  dreary; 
Of  golden-haired  joys  that  are  now  grown  gray; 

Of  visions  departed  and  dreams  grown  weary. 

I  think  of  the  friends  who  are  friends  no  more, 

All  turning  their  fancies  to  newer  faces; 
While  I,  left  alone  with  a  heart  so  sore, 

Must  wander  dejected  through  stranger  places. 
I  sigh  as  I  think  of  the  true  ones  dead, 

I  fancy  their  pinions  still  flit  around  me; 
Of  dead  golden  days,  —  they  are  now  like  lead,  — 

Ah,  meshes  enchanted,  ye  still  surround  me! 


172  A    Vision  in  Ashes. 

I  sigh  for  the  spring  that  can  not  return, 

Whose  roses  are  withered,    whose  sweet   birds 
scattered; 

In  vain  for  the  summer  now  lost  I  yearn, 
Whose   bowers  are  yellow,   whose   green  leaves 
shattered; 

I  look  over  earth  that  is  gaunt  and  gray, 

Where  autumn's  chill  showers  and  blasts  are  flying. 
And  then  through  the  skies  of  the  fading  day, — 

All  nature  doth  hearken  and  answer  sighing! 

And  such  is  our  life,  with  its  sparkling  morn, 

With  visions  that  perish,  with  idle  dreaming, 
With  hopes  that  desert  us  when  weary  and  worn, 

And  sunset  is  faintly  and  coldly  gleaming. 
The  embers  grow  pale,  lose  their  youthful  fire, 

And  ashes  all  sombre  fall  over  their  glory. 
So  thus  all  my  dreams  and  my  hopes  expire, 

And  no  one  will  heed  them  or  hear  their  story. 


A  FIRESIDE  PHANTOM. 

AH,    have   pity,    silent   spectre,    with   thy   sad, 
reproachful  gaze, 
Haunting  still  my  shadowed  hearth-stone  in  the 

twilight  dim  and  drear; 

For,  my  darling,  we  can  never  call  to  life  our  per 
ished  days, 

And  forever  separated  are  the  souls  once  near 
and  dear. 

Once  we  roved  the  fields  together,   hand  in  hand, 

with  thoughtless  joy, 
When  thy  lips  were  sweet  with  laughter    and 

thine  eyes  unstained  with  tears, 
Thou   a  little   fair-haired   maiden,    I    a   fond   and 

dreaming  boy, 

Ere  we  tasted  worldly  sorrow  in  these  hapless 
later  years. 

Oh,  how  green  those  leafy  woodlands!     Oh,   how 

blue  those  summer  skies ! 
Oh,  how  wild  the  thrush's  warblings!     Oh,   how 

clear  the  bubbling  springs ! 
Oh,  how  sweet  the  vine's  dark  clusters!     Oh,   how 

rich  the  rose' s  dyes ! 

Earth  was  strewn  with  budding  garlands,  heaven 
was  white  with  angel  wings! 


174  <A  Fireside  Phantom. 

Then  thy  dark-blue  eyes  would  charm  me  with  a 

blithesome,  blissful  spell, 
And  thy  soft  cheeks'  darling  dimples  bound  me 

like  a  chain  of  flowers; 
Then  thy  ringing  laugh  would  thrill  me, — ah,    I 

hear  its  echo  still ! 

And  thy  silver  songs  were  sweeter  than  the  birds' 
in  woodland  bowers. 

Hand  in  hand  we  wandered  ever,  viewing  many  a 

wondrous  land, 
Eastern    realms    whose     sands     were     golden, 

diamond  valleys,  pearly  caves, 
Fairy  isles  and  haunted  mountains,   dream-land's 

weird  enchanted  strand, 

Knights  and  maids  in  grim  old  castles,   treasures 
sunk  beneath  the  waves. 

But,  alas!  those  dreams  have  vanished,   all  those 

days  forever  fled, 
Life  no  longer  is  a  poem,  but  a  lesson  dull  and 

dry; 
Youth,  grown  sere  and  gray  and  faded,  in  the  lap  of 

age  lies  dead, 

Summer's  golden-hearted  blossoms  sleep  where 
winter's  chill  winds  sigh. 

Cruel  want  hath  spurred  me  onward,  toiling  for  a 

loaf  of  bread; 

Hateful  avarice  chilled  my  bosom,  struggling  for 
the  gleam  of  gold. 


A  Fireside  Phantom.  175 

So,  sweet  Poesie,  I  left  thee,  though  my  soul  to 

thee  was  wed, 
Though   I  loved  thee,  seraph  maiden,  more  than 

mortal  tongue  hath  told. 

Like  the  foolish  shepherd  Paris,  I  was  doomed  to 

make  a  choice, 
Whether  I  should  take  thy  rival  or  should  still 

around  thee  cling. 
"  Oh,  choose  me,  who  love  so  fondly! "  came  thy 

gentle,  pleading  voice. 

1 '  I  will  make  of  thee  a  poet  who  is  greater  than 
a  king! 

* '  I  shall  cling  to  thee  forever,  thou  shall  be  my 

prince,  my  pride, 
Green  and  never-fading  laurels  round  thy  brow 

my  hand  shall  twine; 
Though  thy  path  be  dark  and  dismal,  I  shall  not 

desert  thy  side, 

Thine  shall  be  my  bliss  and  beauty  and  thy  sor 
rows  shall  be  mine. ' ' 

' '  But, ' '  thy  rival  quickly  answered,  ' '  she  will  make 

thee  poor  and  low, 
Press  thee  down  to  scoffs  and  sorrows,  doom  thy 

life  to  shame  and  scorn; 
Yet,  if  thou  wilt  but  desert  her,  fame  and  fortune 

I'll  bestow, 

And  for  earth's  enchanting  splendors  thou  shalt. 
never  vainly  yearn. 


176  A  Fireside  Phantom. 

' '  All  her  gifts  are  false  and  empty,  all  her  promises 

are  vain, 
And  her  laurel  wreaths  are  only  strewn  upon  her 

victim's  tomb; 

Then,  desert  her!     I  will  give  thee  pleasures  unal 
loyed  with  pain, 

In  the  present,  not  the  future,  after  life  hath  met 
its  doom." 

Then  my  treacherous  heart  disowned  thee,  and  I 

grasped  thy  rival's  prize, 
Left  thee  weeping,  left  thee  lonely,  like  a  poor 

forsaken  child. 
Ah!  again  I  see  thee,  darling,  with  thy  mournful 

tear-stained  eyes, 

With  thy  golden  locks  dishevelled  and  thy  sweet 
face  wan  and  wild. 

Then  too  late  I  called  upon  thee  to  return  unto  mine 

arms, 
For  thy  happy  heart  was  broken  and  thy  olden 

gladness  fled. 
Nevermore  upon  my  bosom  I  shall  press  thy  sweet 

young  charms, — 

All  in  vain  I  kissed  thy  dimples,  thou  wert  cold 
and  still  and  dead! 

Still  thy  gentle  spirit   haunts  me,   as  the  pensive 

twilight  falls, 

And  thy   dear  blue   eyes  gaze  on    me    by   my 
shadowed,  lonely  hearth; 


A  Fireside  Phantom.  177 

Round  my  neck  thy  soft  arms  gather,  and  thy  kind 

voice  sweetly  calls, 

So  I  dread  thy  shade  no  longer,  stealing  back  to 
share  my  dearth. 


TRIUMPHANT  LOVE. 

TO  love  and  be  loved!     I  tremble  with  joy, 
And  fancy  is  blooming  in  splendor  and  glory; 
To  love  and  be  loved !     I  dream  like  a  boy 

Who  wanders  through  gardens  of  romance  and 
story. 

For  love  is  a  gem  that  lights  a  dark  mine, 
As  islet  of  verdure  that  decks  a  gray  ocean, 

A  fount  in  the  waste,  of  sweetness  divine, 
A  rainbow  allaying  the  storm's  wild  emotion. 

'Tis  love  that  gives  life  one  chalice  of  bliss, 

And  strews  the  grave's  gateway  with  garlands 

of  flowers; 
Like  spring,  it  awakes  the  years  with  a  kiss, 

And  wreathes  the  earth's  thistles  with  blossom 
ing  bowers. 

The  peasant  who's  loved  is  rich  as  a  king, 
The  king  who  is  hated  is  poorest  of  mortals; 

Sweet  love  to  lost  souls  bright  blessings  may  bring, 
And  banished,    leave   darkened   high   heaven's 
pearl  portals. 


Triumphant  Love.  179 

The  soul  without  love!     A  bird  that  ne'er  sings, 
A  palace  deserted  to  silence  and  sadness! 

The  soul  without  love!     A  god  without  wings, 
An  Eden  whose  angels  have  never  known  glad 
ness! 

To  love  and  be  loved !  the  rest  is  all  dross, 

For  fortune  and  fame  are  heartless  and  sterile, 

They  canker  with  rust  or  mantle  with  moss, 
Their  glory  is  shrouded  in  funeral  apparel ! 

A  throne  and  a  crown  are  rigid  and  cold, 

The  eye  of  the  serpent  gleams  forth  from  each 
jewel, 

While  love  doth  gild  huts  with  riches  untold, 
And  warm  into  mercy  the  hearts  of  the  cruel. 

I  loved  and  am  loved !  what  more  can  life  give  ? 

Thy  bosom,  O  darling,  I  clasp  and  I  cherish; 
Thy  kisses  would  cause  the  dead  to  revive, 

Or  lead  me,  O  precious,  to  wither  and  perish! 

Come  go  with  me,  sweet!  thy  breast  I  enfold, 
Let  passion's  wine  chalice  enchant  us  forever! 

Our  romance  and  love  shall  never  grow  cold, 
And  we  shall  be  severed,  my  sweetest  one,  never! 

Through  life  we  shall  pass  with  hand  clasped  in  hand, 
And  shrouded  in  cerements,  still  fondly  be  clasping, 

Together  to  tread  on  Eden's  bright  strand, 
Or  wander  unsevered  where  wild  fiends  are  gasping ! 
1888. 


THE  OLD  COLLEGE  DAYS. 

(Written  for  and  read  before  the  Seventeenth  Biennial 
Convention  of  the  Sigma  Chi  Fraternity,  Chicago,  August 

31,  1888.) 

THE  hours  that  have  fled  seem  blithest  and  best, 
The  days  that  are  dead  most  blissful  and  bright, 
The  sweetest  on  earth  were  lips  we  then  pressed, 

The  warmest  were  hearts  now  silenced  in  night. 
The  locks  we  caressed  were  fullest  of  splendor, 

The  tones  that  we  heard  the  softest  e'  er  spoken, 
The  faces  we  loved  most  true  and  most  tender, 
Those  flowers  most  fair  whose  bowers  are  broken. 

The  hearts  that  now  beat  may  charm  and  delight, 

But  those  that  are  still  were  kindest  of  all; 
Sweet  voices  may  still  to  pleasure  invite, 

But  not  as  the  tones  we  can  not  recall. 
The  eyes  that  still  wake  our  souls  to  devotion 

Are  never  so  bright  as  those  that  have  vanished, 
The  lips  we  still  touch  may  thrill  with  emotion, 

But  never  like  those  now  silenced  and  banished. 

The  old  college  days  were  gayest  e'  er  known, 
The  old  college  friends  the  truest  on  earth, 

The  love  of  those  friends  the  surest  e'er  won, 
The  souls  of  those  friends  the  fullest  of  mirth. 


The  Old  College  Days.  181 

The  boys  we  then  loved  were  braver  and  brighter, 
Their  faces  the  frankest  e'er  gathered  together, 

The  throb  of  their  hearts  was  quicker  and  lighter, — 
Ah  me !  the  whole  year  was  soft  summer  weather. 

But  now  the  fleet  years  grow  gloomy  and  chill, 

The  light  of  the  skies  is  mantled  in  clouds, 
The  voice  of  our  mirth  grows  saddened,  then  still, 

The  raptures  of  yore  are  laid  in  their  shrouds; 
The  dear  college  friends  are  scattered  asunder, 

The  dear  college  boys  tread  scenes  full  of  sorrow, 
Alone  and  in  doubt  the  wide  world  we  wander, 

And  lose  the  bright  past  in  each  dark  to-morrow. 

Still,  oft  in  these  days  of  darkness  and  doubt, 

When  life  from  its  height  begins  to  decline, 
Amid  the  dim  shades  a  star  will  shine  out, 

Sweet  birds  sing  their  songs  and  fair  flowers  twine. 
For  out  the  dead  past  sweet  voices  come  ringing, 

Perfumes  of  dead  flowers  revive  and  flit  hither, 
Bright  faces  we  knew  like  angels  come  winging, 

When  old  college  friends  again  meet  together! 

And  now  on  this  night  we  gather  in  mirth, 

Like  shades  of  old  Danes  in  Odin's  feast-hall, 
And  talk  of  old  friends,  the  fullest  of  worth, 

And  talk  of  old  times,  the  dearest  of  all. 
Like  sailors  long  tossed  on  billows  of  ocean, 

We'll  rest  us  at  last  with  songs  and  with  stories; 
Like  soldiers  long  driven  by  war's  wild  commotion, 

Reposing,  we  boast  our  trophies  and  glories. 


182  The  Old  College  Days. 

Then,  comrades,  fill  up  each  goblet  with  wine, 

Till  bubbles  and  beads  peep  over  the  brim, 
Then  lift  them  on  high,  like  rubies  to  shine, 

Or  flaming  red  stars  when  twilight  grows  dim; 
Now  drink  to  the  days  deserted  forever, 

And  drink  to  the  joys  that  now  have  departed; 
Now  drink  to  the  souls  that  fate  can  not  sever, 

And  drink  to  the  dead,  so  brave  and  true-hearted. 

May  life  for  us  all  strew  dreams  full  of  joy, 

And  bring  every  hope  to  flower  and  fruit! 
May  each  have  the  heart  and  soul  of  a  boy, 

Where  age's  cold  craft  forever  is  mute! 
May  all  tread  the  earth  with  hand  in  hand  twining, 

Through    meadows    bedecked    in    brightest  of 

blossom, 
And  passing  away,  all  free  from  repining, 

Recline  in  one  bower  in  Eden's  soft  bosom! 


THE  MOCKING-BIRD. 

(FROM  AN  INDIAN  LEGEND.) 


GAZED  at  a  mock-bird  high  in  a  tree, 
And  this  was  the  song  he  warbled  to  me: 

ii. 

THOU  wond'rest  why,  as  aloft  I  soar, 
I  sing  to  thee  not  the  same  strains  o'er, 
And  marvel  much  that  the  notes  I  pour 
By  other  blithe  birds  were  trilled  beforef 
And  every  sound  on  the  sea  or  shore 
I  mimic  and  mock  for  evermore, 

in. 

FAR  beyond  the  mystic  mountains, 
Far  beyond  the  sunset's  throne, 

Where  the  crystal  western  fountains 
Bubble  through  the  forests  lone, 

Lived  an  Indian  tribe  now  perished, 

I  their  prince  in  days  of  old; 
Yet  a  maiden  sweet  I  cherished 

In  a  neighboring  nation's  fold. 


1 84  The  Mocking- Bird. 

But  our  tribes  were  foemen  ever, 
So  our  love  we  dared  not  tell, 

And  I  saw  her  sweet  face  never 
Till  the  twilight  shadows  fell. 

Then  with  stealthy  steps  I  sought  her 
With  a  signal  sharp  and  shrill, 

Till  the  foeman  chieftain's  daughter 
Joined  me  in  the  woodland  still. 

i 

X  would  mock  the  thrush  in  flying, 

Or  the  katydid  at  night, 
Hooting  owl  or  panther  crying, 

So  her  steps  were  guided  right. 

Then  we  two  would  roam  together, 
Kissing  in  the  friendly  gloom, 

Till  the  blooming  stars  would  wither 
And  the  night  sink  in  her  tomb. 

V* 

But  together  once  they  found  us, 
And  they  doomed  us  both  to  die; 

To  the  stake  they  dragged  and  bound  us, 
Where  the  cruel  flames  streamed  high. 

But  the  great  God  heard  our  sighing: 
In  the  sky  a  storm  upreared; 

From  the  smoke  two  birds  came  flying, 
And  the  lovers  disappeared. 


The  Mocking- Bird.  185 

Yet  we  heedless  twain  had  ever 

Gazed  but  in  each  other's  eyes, 
Impious  souls,  had  worshipped  never 

Him  who  rules  within  the  skies. 


So  he  saved  us  but  to  doom  us 

Through  the  moons  to  roam  apart, 

While  despair  shall  e'er  consume  us, 
Reigning  o'er  each  breaking  heart. 

I,  a  mock-bird,  fondly  singing, 
Robed  in  sombre  ashen  gray, 

She,  with  gorgeous  plumage,  winging 
In  some  forest  far  away. 

IV. 

My  tongue  must  twitter  through  all  the  hours, 
Still  mocking  each  sound  in  woodland  bowers, 
The  wail  of  winds  and  the  sobs  of  showers, 
The  cricket's  shrill  chirp  in  fading  flowers, 
The  night-hawk's  cry  in  her  pine-tree  towers, 
The  bark  of  the  wolf  when  midnight  lowers. 

But  then  at  last,  in  a  dim,  sweet  year, 
When  gray  with  despair  and  gray  with  fear 
And  mocking  still  at  the  sounds  I  hear, 
I'll  trill  the  true  note  that  strikes  mine  ear, 
The  song  that's  sung  by  my  long-lost  dear, 
And  then  her  sweet  face  'hull  reappear. 


1 86  The  Mocking- Bird. 

Till  then  this  song  over  forests  wide 
I  sing  as  I  seek  my  banished  bride: 

v.. 
I  am  seeking  for  thee  ever  through  the  emerald 

woods  of  May, 
I    am   seeking   for   thee  ever   through    October's 

fields  of  gray; 

I  am  seeking  for  thee  ever  through  the  June-time's 

golden  glory, 
I  am   seeking  for  thee  ever  through  December's 

twilight  hoary; 

I  am  seeking   for   thee  ever   where  the  morning 

buds  are  blooming, 
I  am  seeking  for  thee  ever  where  the  vesper  shades 

are  looming; 

I  am  seeking  for  thee  ever  through  the  dazzling 

tropic  noons, 
I  am  seeking  for  thee  ever  under  wan  and  wasted 

moons ; 

I  am  striving  still  to  find  thee  through  the  green 
magnolia-trees, 

I  am  striving  still  to  find  thee  by  the  misty  north 
ern  seas; 

I  am  striving  still  to  find  thee  in  the  palmy  Indian 
islands, 

I  am  striving  still  to  find  thee  in  the  chill  and  track 
less  highlands; 


The  Mocking -Bird,  187 

I  am  striving  still  to  find  thee  on  the  crimson  cac 
tus-blossoms, 

I  am  striving  still  to  find  thee  in  the  white  lake- 
lilies'  bosoms; 

I  am  striving  still  to  find  thee  in  the  realm  of  Aztec 

mild, 
I  am  striving  still  to  find  thee  in  the  land  of  Huron 

wild. 

So  I  seek  thee  always  faithful,  seek  thee,  sweetest, 

thus  forever, 
But  I  find  thee  in  my  roamings  banished,  vanished 

darling,  never! 

VI. 

Hear  the  blackbird,  silver-throated,  calling  me  to 
meet  him  in  the  breezy  boughs, 

Hear  the  jay,  so  blithe  and  buoyant,  bidding  me 
to  join  him  in  his  mad  carouse; 

Hear  the  redbird,  wild  and  wilful,  teasing  me  to 

aid  him  in  some  curious  quest, 
Hear  the   bluebird,   sweet   and  soothing,    bidding 

me  to  come  and  see  his  happy  nest; 

Hear,  amid  pink-blossomed  orchards,  wooing, 
cooing  of  the  fond  enamoured  dove, 

And  the  oriole,  her  rival,  begging  me  to  bless  her 
with  my  love. 


1 88  The  Mocking -Bird. 

But  my  heart  is  ever  faithful;  never  shall  another 

love  be  known  to  me; 
Though  the  myriad  ages  wither,  in  my  visions  only 

one  sweet  face  I  see. 

VII. 

I  burn, 

I  long,  I  yearn, 
Through  chilly  autumns  red, 
Where  blasted,  burning  deserts  spread, 
To  see  thy  gentle,  tender,  loving  face, 
And  hear  once  more  thy  wild,   sweet,    fawn-like 
tread  of  grace! 

I've  not 

Thy  love  forgot; 

Then  wilt  thou  let  me  pine 

Far  from  thy  starry  eyes  divine  ? 

Return,  return !  then  like  a  merry  boy 

I'll  sing  forever  for  thee  thrilling  tunes  of  joy! 

VIII. 

Indian  wigwams,  Indian  camp-fires  from  their  ruth 
less  pale-faced  foes  have  vanished, 

And  the  red-men,  like  the  red  leaves,  on  a  hoary 
winter  blast  are  banished. 

All  our  sacred  groves  have  fallen,  all  the  trophies 
of  our  tribe  have  perished, 

All  our  legends  long  forgotten,  and  our  mother- 
tongue  no  longer  cherished . 


The  Mocking- Bird.  189 

But  amid  the  desolation,  ever  vainly  for  thy  presence 

pining, 
Never  in  my  tearful  visions  have  I  seen  thy  glorious 

plumage  shining. 

Yet  another  love  can  never  make  me  drink  from 

out  his  bubbling  chalice, 
And  no  other  maiden  woo  me  to  abide  within  her 

blissful  palace. 

I  shall  love  thee  till  the  spring-time  thrilleth  not  the 

earth's  breast  with  emotion, 
I  shall  love  thee  till  the  dew-drops  all  have  vanished 

from  the  desert  ocean. 

Though  I  find  thee,  beauteous  being,  not  till  all  the 

mountains  burst  asunder, 
And  the  judgment  trumpet  rouses  all  the  earth's 

dead  like  a  peal  of  thunder. 


"YE  BACHELOR." 

OLD  friend,  you  ask  me  why,  on  this  Novem 
ber  night, 
When  every  home  is  filled  with  life  and  love  and 

light, 

I  sit  here  lonely  in  this  desolated  room, 
Beside  this  dying  fire,  and  in  this  gathering  gloom  ? 

Yes,  it  is  glorious  on  this  gay  Thanksgiving  Night, 
To  look  into  those  homes,   so  blithesome  and  so 

bright, 

And  sweet  to  see  the  loving  eyes,  the  faces  fair, 
To  hear  the  pattering  feet  of  little  children  there. 

Yes  it  is  true,  I  often  wish  to  steal  away 

From  out  the  shadows  of  these  dismal  walls  of  gray, 

But  as  I  light  my  pipe,    its  smoke-wreaths  pinions 

take, 
And  gazing  in  that  smoke  a  thousand  dreams  awake. 

So  I  am  not  alone,  although  you  smile  at  me, 
And  in  this  dingy  place  no  friendly  face  you  see; 
For  in  the  darkness  beckon  airy  spirit  hands, 
And  wandering  with  them  I  am  borne  to  wondrous 
lands. 

And  now  I  see  a  dell  with  overhanging  bowers, 
Bedecked   in   sunshine   and   a   wealth   of  summer 
flowers. 


'•"  Ye  Bachelor"  191 

I  hear  the  bubbling  brook,  I  hear  the  lowing  herds, 
I  hear  the  singing  of  a  thousand  blissful  birds. 

And  in  the  leafy  lanes  I  see  a  little  face, 
Upon  whose  cheek  no  sin  or  sorrow  shows  a  trace; 
Fresh  as  a  blossom  jeweled  with  the  dews  of  morn, 
Pure  as  a  young  dove  in  the  leafy  branches  born! 

Her  eyes  are  darker  than  the  purple  pansies  there, 
Her  laughter  lighter  than  the  bird-songs  in  the  air; 
Her  cheeks  are  softer  than  the  peach-tree's  cluster 
ing  bloom, 
Her  lips  are  sweeter  than  the  lilac's  frail  perfume. 

And  there  we  tread  in  joy,  with  golden  skies  above, 
With  humming  bees,  and  birds   that  carol  lays   of 

love. 

Her  golden  hair  has  snared  me  in  a  maze  of  bliss; 
Earth  fades  and  heaven  descends  around  us  as  we 

kiss. 

Another  vision  comes:  I  see  her  lying  still, 
With  snowy  blossoms  in  her  waxen  fingers  chill. 
Her  sweet,  pale  little  face,  that  never  knew  a  cloud, 
Is  mantled  round  with  silken  foldings  of  the  shroud. 

Another  vision  still:  I  see  a  new-made  grave, 
Above  whose  clods  November's  wild  winds  madly 
rave, 


192  "  Ye  Bachelor." 

With  snow-flakes  falling  at  the  wave  of  wizard 
wands, 

While  leafless  branches  moan  and  wring  their  with 
ered  hands. 

But  all  those  phantoms  vanish  now,    and  so  I'm 

here, — 

A  dull  old  bachelor,  all  gaunt  and  gray  and  sere; 
And  that  is  why  I  sit  and  smoke  my  pipe  alone, 
Or  watch  the  dying  embers  on  my  dim  hearth-stone. 

For  when  the  curling  whiffs  of  feathery  smoke  arise 
From  out  their  shadowy  depths,  I  see  her  love-lit 

eyes; 

And  when  I  watch  the  embers  in  the  ashes  there, 
I  see  the  gleaming  of  her  wondrous  golden  hair. 

And  though  for  home  and  wife  and  children' s  laugh 

I  yearn, 

With  her  my  heart  was  buried,  never  to  return; 
And  though  on  earth  I  still  see  many  a  lovely  face, 
No  angel  from  the  skies  could  take  that  lost  one's 

place. 


A  FLOWER  FROM  THE  GRAVE  OF 
SHELLEY. 

LONESOME  little  faded  blossom, 
Nestling  in  a  stranger's  hand, 
Torn  from  Shelly' s  gentle  bosom, 
Banished  now  to  this  far  land! 

Born  of  Shelley's  ashes  holy, 
Nourished  by  the  heart  of  Keats, 

Under  ruins  melancholy, 

By  the  charnels'  dim  retreats; 

Springing  under  arches  olden, 
By  the  dust  of  queens  and  kings, 

In  the  scenes  of  legends  golden, 
And  the  haunts  of  spirit- wings ! 

All  my  heart  is  filled  with  pity 

As  I  gaze  into  thy  face, — 
From  the  old  eternal  city, 

Wandering  to  this  far-off  p^ace ! 

But  while  kings  and  queens  may  perish, 
Other  kings  and  queens  are  born, 

And  each  fading  flower  we  cherish 
Blooms  again  some  April  morn. 


194      A  Flower  From  the  Grave  of  Shelley. 

Tell  me,  then,  how  buds  still  blossom, 
And  new  monarchs  come  to  reign, 

While  the  songs  from  Shelley's  bosom 
Never  thrill  the  world  again  ? 


THE  LITTLE  WANDERER. 

TELL  me,  pretty  little  maiden, 
Flitting  round  my  footsteps  slow, 
Lips  with  love  and  laughter  laden, 
How  you  reached  this  world  below  ? 

Bringing  dreams  of  spring-time  flowers, 
Bringing  dreams  of  summer  skies, 

Bringing  dreams  of  budding  bowers, 
Blithesome  birds  and  butterflies ! 

Bringing  dreams  of  vistas  vanished, 
Bringing  dreams  of  perished  years, 

Bringing  dreams  of  faces  banished, 
Happy  days  now  hid  in  tears! 

Are  you  not  some  truant  fairy 

Like  a  little  mortal  drest, 
Or  some  bird  with  young  wings  airy 

Fluttering  from  your  mother's  nest  ? 

Tell  me,  little  angel  vision, 

How  you  came  to  meet  me  here; 

Did  you  steal  from  fields  Elysian, 
Wandering,  lost  on  earth,  my  dear  ? 


196  The  Little    Wanderer. 

No,  my  darling,  you  are  mortal, 
Come  to  share  our  dreary  dearth, — 

Newly  come  from  heaven's  pearl  portal, — 
Come  to  cheer  our  cheerless  earth! 


Leaving  heaven,  the  angels  kissed  you, 
And  their  great,  soft  eyes  grew  dim; 

Leaving  heaven,  they  surely  missed  you, 
Wandering  through  these  deserts  grim ! 

And  I  fear,  by  envy  driven, 
Pining  for  your  face,  my  dear, 

They  will  steal  you  back  to  heaven, 
Leaving  us  in  anguish  here. 

But  should  jealous  seraphs  spare  you, 
Sad,  I  fear,  would  be  your  lot; 

Few  would  be  the  joys  to  cheer  you; 
Life  is  cruel,  little  tot! 

Were  I  but  some  wizard  olden, 

I  would  deck  your  path  with  flowers 

Overarched  with  heavens  golden, 

Free  from  blasts  and  chilling  showers. 

Were  I  king,  with  wealth  and  glory, 

I  would  scatter  at  your  feet 
All  the  gems  of  song  and  story, 

Dreams  of  poets  bright  and  sweet. 


The  Little    Wanderer.  197 


But  these  gifts  are  all  denied  me. 

So,  my  heart,  forever  true, 
Prays  that  you  may  flit  beside  me, 

I  from  harm  defending  you. 

So  your  little  feet  may  never 

On  a  flinty  pathway  be, 
While  the  darts  from  Sorrow's  quiver, 

Missing  you,  shall  wound  but  me. 


"SCORN  NOT  THE  HEART." 

SCORN  not  the  heart  which  may  be  proffered 
thee, 

For  burning  love  may  change  to  burning  hate. 
When  summer  pineth  in  her  queenly  state, 
The  wan,  wild  autumn  in  her  path  shall  be, 
Blighting  her  blossoms  as  her  footsteps  flee; 

When  day' s  white  wings  fade  through  her  golden 

gate, 

The  shadows  gather  in  the  gloaming  late, 
And  shroud  her  splendors  in  the  solemn  sea; 
When  through  the  tropic  forests' s  noonday  warm 
The  waking  blasts  invade  the  gorgeous  bowers, 
Their  glories  perish  in  the  furious  storm ; 

While  selfish  Life  holds  revel  through  the  hours, 
He  starts  at  last  to  see  Death's  awful  form 

Creep,    cold    and    cruel,    through    the    fading 
flowers. 


CONFIRMATION. 

children,  robed  in  spotless  white,  I  see 
1       Kneel  for  a  blessing  at  the  bishop's  feet, 
And,  as  I  gaze  upon  their  faces  sweet, 
As  pure  as  doves,  from  stain  of  sin  so  free, 
Before  the  priest  whose  sins  unnumbered  be, 
Whose  heart  for  selfish,  sordid  aims  doth  beat, 
I  marvel  why  his  blessing  they  entreat, 
When  he  to  them  should  rather  bend  the  knee. 

Dear  little  hearts,  my  soul  adopts  your  creed; 

Dear  little  feet,  your  pathway  I  shall  share; 
Dear  little  hands,  my  wanderings  ye  shall  lead! 

Dear  little  brows,  guide  with  your  golden  hair; 
Dear  little  lips,  my  God's  forgiveness  plead; 

Dear  little  eyes,  shine  on  my  soul's  despair! 


"MARY." 

OF  all  the  sweet  names  that  ever  were  given 
To  mortals  on  earth  or  seraphs  in  heaven,, 
No  matter  if  borne  by  milkmaid  or  fairy, 
The  sweetest  of  all  must  ever  be  ' '  Mary. ' ' 

There's  "  Helen,"  the  star  of  song  and  of  story,. 
Men  perished  to  wreathe  her  ringlets  with  glory; 
There  also  is  "  Ruth,"  so  true  and  so  tender, 
Whose  meekness  and  faith  make  strong  men  sur 
render. 

And  "  Mabel  "  's  a  name  that  ever  sounds  sweetly, 
And  charms  and  enchants  a  mortal  completely, 
While  ' '  Katie ' '  suggests  brown  eyes  and  brown 

tresses, 
Created  for  love  and  lover's  caresses. 

There's  ' '  Maud ' *  with  a  mouth  as  red  as  a  cherry,. 
With  kisses  so  sweet,  with  laughter  so  merry; 
There's   "Edith,"   whose   eyes    are    blue    as    the 

fountains, 
With  ringlets  of  gold  like  morn  on  the  mountains. 

There's    "Blanche,"    and   "Adele,"   that  sound 

autocratic, 
Poor  "  Sarah  "  and  "  Jane  "  that  dwell  in  an  attic, 


"Mary."  201 

While  "Emma"  is  dear,  all  dote  upon    "Jenny," 
And  ' '  Annie  ' '  is  loved  not  least  among  many. 

But  never  a  name  like  "  Mary  "  is  spoken; 
The  dearest  of  dreams  revive  at  that  token, 
Each  other  brings  joy  or  brightness  or  sweetness, 
But  "  Mary"  alone  has  perfect  completeness. 

The  lady  high-born  who  reigns  in  a  castle, 
The  widow  forlorn,  the  spouse  of  the  vassal, 
The  captive  chained  down  in  dungeon  cell  dreary, 
The  diademed  queen,  may  bear  the  name  "  Mary." 

And    "Mary"    's  the  soul  who  opes  the  heart's 

portals, 

A  sweetheart,  perchance,  the  dearest  of  mortals; 
A  sister,  whose  soul  is  dowered  with  beauty, 
Or  mother,  who  lives  for  love  and  for  duty. 

'Twas  "  Mary  "  who  first  shed  tears  of  contrition, 
'Twas  she  who  was  blest  with  God's  greatest  mis 
sion; 

She  stood  by  His  cross,  she  saw  His  tomb  riven, 
Her  name  shall  be  first  on  earth  and  in  heaven. 


11  BACK  TO  THE  WORLD." 

BACK  to  the  world,  with  all  its  toils  and  tears, 
My  faltering  footsteps  once  again  must  turn. 
The  one  for  whom  my  sad  soul  still  would  yearn, 
Through  weary  months  and  dreary,  dreary  years, 
With  ever-struggling  hosts  of  hopes  and  fears, 
At  last  with  careless  tongue  my  love  doth  spurn, 
And  while  I  with  my  cruel  anguish  burn, 
My  one  sweet  dream  forever  disappears. 

Within  the  crystal  goblet's  purple  gleam 
My  soul  strives  to  forget  her  starry  eyes; 

Within  the  great  world's  swiftly-surging  stream 
My  heart  heaves  to  escape  her  sweet,  strong  ties; 

Yet  though  deep  buried,  well  I  know  my  dream 
Will  haunt  me  with  a  grief  that  never  dies. 


FRAGMENTS 

FROM 

"THE  OUTCAST  AND  OTHER  POEMS" 

1885 


MORNING. 

I  SEE  the  morning  in  ebon  east, 
And  catch  the  glitter  of  her  silver  spears; 
And  now  she  rises  in  her  royal  robes 
Of  purple  and  of  scarlet  flecked  with  gold, 
Like  an  enchantress  on  her  bridal  day, 
Who  waits  to  welcome  some  enamored  king, 
Or  as  an  Arab  princess  decked  with  gems, 
And  all  the  fabled  splendors  of  Arabian  tales. 


EVENING. 

THE  creamy  cloudlets,  like  a  flock  of  swans, 
Are  floating  on  their  flaky  wings  of  white 
See  monstrous  mists  arising  in  the  north 
Like  snowy  mountains  in  the  Arctic  seas, 
Until  the  splendor  of  the  dying  day 
Has  glorified  them  like  the  heights  of  heaven 
With  walls  of  jasper  and  with  domes  of  gold; 
At  last  the  stately  Sun  falls  in  his  grave, 
And  then  like  dusky  Titans  thunderstruck, 
The  giant  phantoms  sink  behind  the  hills. 


AUTUMN. 

EPARTING  summer  lingers  sadly  still 
l_         Around  the  faded  field  and  misty  hill; 
The  quaking  branches  of  the  bare  trees  sigh 
And  chilly  rains  fall  where  the  dead  leaves  lie; 
The  brambles  grow  where  blushing  roses  bloomed 
And  nightshade  spreads  where  lilies  lie  entombed; 
The  mournful  spirit  of  the  Autumn  treads 
Where  yellow  asters  hang  their  withered  heads. 

The  birds  of  passage,  faintly  calling,  fly 

To  seek  a  home  beneath  a  southern  sky; 

Amid  the  rustling  woods  at  pensive  eve 

The  waving  mists  their  sombre  fabrics  weave; 

The  sinking  sun  amid  the  mottled  skies 

Spreads  through  the  cold  gray  clouds  his  burning 

dyes, 

And  scarlet  streamers  flame  around  his  bier 
With  awful  glories  of  the  waning  year. 

•• 

And  now  I  tread  the  lonesome  garden  walks 
Beside  the  dry,  decaying  lily  stalks, 
Amid  deserted,  drooping  yellow  bowers 
Bent  with  their  blighted  buds  and  faded  flowers 
And  see  amid  the  numb  November  gloom 
The  radiance  of  a  lone  Magnolia  bloom, 


Autumn.  207 

In  spotless  splendor  soon  to  pass  away 
Amid  this  desolation  and  decay; 

Like  one  who  met  me  under  skies  of  May, 

And  still  is  mine,  while  others  pass  away, 

When  spring  and  summer  long  have  left  my  heart, 

And  false  friends,  like  my  false  hopes,  all  depart, — 

To  linger  with  me  through  the  blast  and  blight 

And  through  the  shadows  of  the  coming  night, 

Yet  falters  at  the  setting  of  my  sun, 

And  then  forsakes  me  as  the  rest  have  done. 


THREE  SOUTHERN  SCENES, 
i. 

THE    SAVANNAH. 

WE  ride  through  forests  ever  cool  and  green, 
Where  giant  live-oaks  join  their  boughs 

above, 

All  knit  together  by  a  thousand  vines, 
The  trumpet  flower,  with  its  blazing  blooms 
Whose  martial  music  flashes  into  flame, 
The  brier,  bramble  and  the  poison  oak, 
Like  scaly  serpents  thrusting  forth  their  fangs, 
While  spiders,  like  the  Sirens  long  ago, 
Spread  silken  snares  bedecked  with  dazzling  dew 
To  tangle  in  the  feet  of  foolish  flies; 
Through   treacherous   fens   and   wastes  of  matted 

shrubs, 

Above  the  black  mould,  ever  dank  and  cold 
Burst  through  by  lushy  clumps  of  whitened  sprouts, 
Where  lies  concealed  the  deadly  rattlesnake; 
By  greenly-mantled  ponds,  made  beautiful 
With  multitudes  of  water  lilies  white. 

And  then  a  blue  lake  shimmers  in  the  sun 
Or  quivers  in  the  gloomy  cypress  shades; 
A  gorgeous  wild  duck  floats  upon  the  waves 
With  plumage  polished  like  a  coat  of  mail; 
The  snakes  are  twisted  on  the  rotten  limbs 


77iree  Southern  Scenes.  209 

Of  dead  trees  that  have  fallen  in  the  lake; 

On  yonder  logs,  the  turtles  in  a  line 

Are  drying  broad  backs  in  the  burning  sun; 

The  blue  jay,  like  a  noisy  trooper,  calls, 

The  red  bird  flutters  like  a  flower  of  flame; 

The  gaunt  gar,  like  a  Turkish  scimitar, 

Leaps  from  the  lake,  and  circling  sinks  from  sight. 

ii. 

AN    AUTUMN    MORNING. 

A  RICH  October  morning,  calm  and  still, 
When  saddened  skies  hang  in  a  dreamy  haze; 
The  red  and  yellow  leaves  dance  in  the  light, 
Arraying  every  hill  in  regal  robes. 
The  flocks  of  squirrels  gather  ripening  nuts, 
The  luscious  wild  grapes  in  blue  clusters  cling, 
And  bright  woodpeckers  whisk  amid  the  leaves. 
The  dry  broom -sedge  grows  over  wasted  fields 
Fringing  red  gullies  and  rough  banks  of  clay; 
Along  the  highway  and  the  meadows  brown 
The  golden-rods  and  asters  are  ablaze. 

Here  stands  a  planter's  house  amid  his  farms 

Of  snowy  cotton  and  of  golden  corn, 

Specked  here  and  there  by  low-roofed  negro  huts 

Whose  dusky  denizens  in  fleecy  fields 

Sing  with  a  sweet  mysterious  melody 

The  songs  of  Salem  in  this  western  world 

With  all  the  fervor  of  its  ancient  bards. 


2io  Three  Southern  Scenes. 

Far,  far  above,  amid  the  dreamy  skies 
The  buzzards  glide  on  still  and  stately  wings, 
While  birds  of  passage,  in  a  bending  line 
Fly  from  the  far  north  to  the  southern  seas. 

in. 

THE   OLD    MANSION. 

I  SEE  a  ghostly  ruin  of  the  past 
And  tread  its  cedar-bordered  avenues. 
Around  its  porticoes  the  pillars  tall 
Stand  like  a  row  of  trusty  sentinels 
Guarding  the  glories  of  a  perished  race 
Amid  its  desolation  and  decay; 
A  few  tall  roses  and  magnolias  stand 
Around  a  fountain  choked  with  water  weeds. 

See  the   great   rooms,   whose  mirrored   walls   are 

crushed 

And  marble  mantles  now  are  overthrown. 
My  footstep  falling  in  the  haunted  halls, 
Seems  waking  from  the  dead  and  dusty  years 
The  far-off  echoes  of  a  hunter's  horn 
Blown  by  the  master  of  a  thousand  slaves;  - 
Amid  the  shadows  of  this  archway  old 
I  see  a  beauteous  high-born  lady  stand 
And  hear  the  rustle  of  her  silken  gown; 
Amid  the  broken  mirrors  on  the  walls 
The  softest  brown  eyes  ever  seen  on  earth 
Shine  on  me  from  their  dewy,  dusky  depths 


Three  Southern  Scenes.  211 

With  starry  splendors  of  a  tropic  night; 

My  whisper,  stealing  through  the  ruined  rooms 

Brings  back  the  laughter  of  the  yester-years, 

And  all  the  revels  of  a  nuptial  night, 

Until  the  dead  bride  from  her  mossy  tomb 

Comes  treading  by  me  in  her  robes  of  white; 

Amid  the  cobwebs  on  the  ancient  stair, 

I  see  the  shimmer  of  her  snowy  veil, 

The  withered  orange  blossoms  on  her  brow, 

And  then,  her  sweet  face  swiftly  vanishing 

Amid  the  glimmer  of  her  golden  hair. 


TO  ONE  DEPARTED 

THY  loving  work  is  done  forevermore, 
Thy  tender  heart  is  free  from  all  its  cares, 
For  at  the  coming  of  the  still,  sad  night, 
Thy  folded  hands  have  won  their  final  rest. 
So  thou  art  drawing  near  thy  happy  home, 
With  gladsome  singing  and  with  golden  sheaves, 
Fearing  no  foe  amid  the  gloom  of  death, 
Seeing  beyond  the  radiant  wings  of  dawn, 
The  plumy  palm  trees  of  a  paradise 
With  pearly  portals  and  with  gates  of  gold. 

Thy  happy  days,  my  dearest,  have  begun, 
While  we  on  earth  are  still  amid  our  woes; 
We  can  not  dream  of  half  thy  boundless  bliss, 
Our  deepest  joy  would  be  a  pain  to  thine; 
Thou  wert  the  fairest  flower  of  the  earth 
And  now  heaven  claims  ihee  as  its  loveliest  star. 


THE  CYNIC 

IN  festal  halls  the  flaring  lights  hang  round, 
And  artificial  beauty  flaunts  beneath; 
The  flaming  wine  leaps  wildly  in  the  blood, 
And  artificial  mirth  writhes  on  the  lips; 
The  noisy  music  thrills  with  painful  joy, 
And  smiles  of  love  have  bale  as  well  as  bliss. 
Outside,  the  city — huddled  den  of  sin, — 
Is  boiling  like  a  witch's  caldron  in  the  night. 

And  here  the  cynic  treads  to  scoff  and  jeer 
At  beauty,  sweetness  and  at  innocence; 
Their  gentle  smiles  and  eager,  loving  eyes 
Are  blasted  as  he  rudely  passes  by. 
His  laughter  is  an  agonizing  spasm, 
And  bears  a  likeness  unto  wholesome  mirth 
As  yellow  autumn  leaflets,  sick  and  sere, 
Are  like  the  tender  foliage  of  the  spring. 

Then,  should  he  tread  where  fragrant  garden  flowers 
Breathe  out  their  odors  like  a  song  from  heaven, 
He  carries  with  him  artificial  blight 
And  drouth  and  dearth,  to  kill  them  like  a  curse. 
So,  like  a  thorn-tree,  battered,  bruised  and  worn, 
He  multiplies  his  thorns  for  every  wound, 
Or  like  the  proud  Egyptian  queen  of  old 
He  hugs  a  serpent  that  shall  sting  his  soul 


UJU7BRSIT7 


A  STORM  IN  SUMMER. 

THE  August  sun  blazed  with  a  blasting  heat 
And  on  the  yellowing  corn-fields  fiercely  beat, 
The  sky  was  burning  with  an  ashen  blue 
And  glaring  with  the  hot  beams  darting  through; 
The  hazy  dust  was  rising  everywhere 
And  floating  slowly  on  the  stifling  air. 
All  day  the  katydid  chirped  sharp  and  shrill 
And  green  grasshoppers  answered  from  the  hill; 
Deep  in  the  lushy  grass  the  cricket  purred 
While  in  the  trees  all  day  the  locust  whirred; 
All  night  the  dry-flies  from  the  dusky  limbs 
Ground  forth  their  sawing,  nasal-twanging  hymns. 

Sometimes  we  watched  the  reapers  in  the  field 
In  a  long  line  their  flashing  sickles  wield. 
We  hunted  for  the  quail's  nest  through  the  wheat 
And  found  it  hidden,  quiet,  snug  and  neat. 
A  nest  of  grass,  filled  full  of  snowy  spheres, 
Thick  as  the  grains  upon  the  ripened  ears, 
Pure  as  the  pearls  that  gleam  in  Indian  seas 
Or  milk-white  buds  upon  the  locust  trees. 

Then  after  weary  waiting  came  the  rain 
When  panting  earth  grew  fresh  and  green  again. 
The  morning  ere  the  rain  was  red  and  hot 
And  like  sharp  arrows  sultry  sunbeams  shot. 


A  Storm  in  Summer.  215 

But  when  noon  came  the  breeze  began  to  blow 

Delicious  coolness  through  the  feverish  glow; 

And  then  from  out  the  west  dull  clouds  arose 

And  skimmed  along,  too  restless  for  repose. 

More  clouds  began  to  follow,  till  they  grew 

Darker  and  broader,  while  the  strong  winds  blew. 

Soon  deep-toned  thunder  echoed  from  the  clouds, 

And  sword-like  flashes  drove  the  mists  in  crowds. 

Ah,  how  delicious  to  the  eager  ear 

Were  those  cool  shadows,  swiftly  drawing  near! 

It  seemed  unto  the  anxious  farmer's  mind, 

That  loftiest  music  rode  upon  the  wind. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  God  of  manly  sport 

With  horns  and  hounds  had  come  to  hold  his  court, 

Returned  through  faded  earth  to  rove  at  will 

And  caper  gladly  o'er  the  yellowing  hill; 

To  shout  and  laugh  amid  reviving  flowers, 

And  drive  his  baying  hounds  through  forest  bowers. 

The  clouds  grew  blacker,  till  they  loomed  like  night, 
And  then  the  blasts  came  roaring  in  their  might; 
The  mighty  elms  were  swayed  from  side  to  side, 
For  like  a  devil  did  the  tempest  ride. 
The  oaks  groaned  and  their  mighty   limbs  were 

crushed; 
The  rafters  creaked  as  by  the  roofs  he  rushed. 

And  now,  upon  the  mountain's  distant  side, 
A  shroud-like  sheet  of  rain  was  seen  to  glide; 
Then  soon  the  valleys  at  its  feet  were  crossed, 


2i6  A  Storm  in  Summer. 

And  nearer,  nearer  by,  the  fields  were  lost: 

Next,  the  hard  gust  came  with  a  mighty  stride, — 

The  driving  rain  was  scattered  far  and  wide! 

Yes,  there  it  was  at  last  in  all  its  strength, 

And  fast  was  filling  all  the  country's  length; 

It  came  as  in  an  overwhelming  flood, 

And  drenched  the  meadow  and  the  field  and  wood. 

All  through  the  storm  we  nestled  on  the  hay 
That,  piled  in  huge  heaps,  through  the  barn-rooms 

lay; 

The  tempest  flooded  all  the  roof  without, 
And  great  gusts  shook  the  rafters  with  a  shout. 
Far  up  above,  the  mud-flies  worked  away, 
Building  their  cells  of  well-cemented  clay; 
The  little  wren  within  her  nook  peered  out, 
And  squeaking  mice  would  slyly  skip  about; 
The  lithe,  slim  swallow  fluttered  on  her  nest, 
Her  chattering  fledglings  robbing  her  of  rest. 

At  last  the  rain  ceased,  and  the  clouds  flew  by, 
Showing  the  dark  blue  of  the  dewy  sky; 
Upon  the  outskirts  of  the  dying  storm 
The  glorious  rainbow  reared  his  regal  form; 
But  soon  the  winds  tore  down  the  fragile  arch, 
As  frosty  footsteps  through  the  roses  march. 


"THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  END." 

POOR  helpless  child,  sleep  softly  through  the 
night, 

For  on  thy  heart  to-morrow  falls  the  blight; 
Sleep  on  in  all  thy  peaceful  thoughtlessness, 
And  dream  the  last  time  of  thy  youthful  bliss; 
For  with  the  coming  of  the  hapless  day 
A  shadow  falls,  to  never  pass  away. 
Would  thou  couldst  shun  the  path  thou  soon  must 

wend, 

Would  that  thy  sleep  could  never  have  an  end. 
Soon  comes  the  glitter  of  the  morning  light, 
But  morning  brings  thee  everlasting  night. 

Joy  seems  amid  thy  cherub  cheeks  to  smile, 

And  in  thy  dimples  basks  a  little  while; 

But  soon  thy  timid  face  will  hotly  flame 

With  branded  hues  of  deep  and  lasting  shame; 

Within  thy  heart  a  guilty  secret  lies, 

The  serpent  of  a  sin  that  never  dies; 

For  thou  hast  loved  too  much  and  loved  too  well 

And  fallen  helpless  in  a  fearful  spell; 

Thy  lover  now  hath  left  thee  all  alone, 

And  soon  thy  deadly  secret  shall  be  known. 

He  leaves  thee,  with  an  aching  heart  of  lead, 

To  wander  when  thy  happy  hopes  are  dead, 


218  "The  Beginning  of  the  End" 

To  nurse  a  being  not  from  wedlock  sprung 
Which  headless  passion  from  thy  bosom  wrung, 
A  helpless  soul  to  bear  an  outcast's  name, 
Proof  of  thy  guilt  and  witness  of  thy  shame. 

Thee,  crouching  from  the  cruel  lash  I  see 
Upon  the  plowshares  where  thy  path  shall  be, 
Thy  soft  feet  bleeding  on  the  pointed  flint, 
And  eyes  more  cruel  fiercely  o'er  thee  bent — 
Those  childish  feet  too  fair  for  violet  beds, 
White  as  the  leaves  the  dying  lily  sheds! 
Then,  darling,  in  the  dust  I  see  thee  hurled, 
Amid  the  curses  of  a  cruel  world, 
And  as  thou  crouchest,  hiding  from  its  wrath, 
I  see  thy  spoiler  tread  his  primrose  path, 
And,  spitting  on  his  victim  fallen  down, 
The  world  rewards  the  traitor  with  a  crown. 


MARTYRDOM. 

THE  martyr  need  not  perish  by  the  gallows,  at 
the  stake,  or  cross- tree  high; 

For  often  it  is  nobler  and  is  braver  for  his  creed  to 
live  than  die. 


THE  POET. 

AMID  the  blossoms,  under  skies  of  blue, 
The  brown  bee   seeks  and   gathers   honey- 
dew; 

The  poet  seeks  through  glory  and  through  gloom 
And  gathers  beauty  both  in  blight  and  bloom. 


BEFORE  THE  BATTLE. 

AROUND  me  spread  ten  thousand   camps  of 
white, 

So  wide  they  cover  all  the  distant  hills 
Like  the  vast  flocks  of  some  barbaric  tale 
The  giant  Cyclops  folded  round  their  caves. 


THE  BATTLE. 

AT  first  a  lew  blasts  shake  the  startled  air, 
And  then  a  hundred  burst  in  serried  flame, 
While  all  the  Earth  is  quaking  in  its  fear 
And  all  the  hills  are  rocking  to  their  base. 
The  iron  balls  are  rushing,  crushing  by, 
And  all  is  ruin  where  they  quiver  past; 
They  scatter  leaves  like  fierce  December  winds, 
And  giant  trees  come  crashing  to  the  ground; 
The  stones  are  splintered  high  upon  the  hills, 
The  sod  is  ploughed,  the  sky  is  dim  with  dust; 
The  baleful  bombs  are  bursting  far  and  near 
And  frightened  echoes  answer  back  the  sounds; 
It  seems  as  if  the  ancient  days  of  Earth 
Have  now  returned  with  all  their  giant  brood, 
And  all  the  Titans,  hurled  from  lofty  heaven, 
Are  struggling  with  the  Thunderer  on  his  throne. 


THE  SPRING. 

I  SEE  above  us,  from  a  mossy  wall, 
A  bubbling  spring  leap  in  a  broken  fall; 
Its  torrents  dash  upon  the  jutting  rocks, 
And  splashing  outward,  shiver  with  the  shocks; 

Its  silver  cascade  breaks  in  brilliant  bars, 
Or  twinkles  like  a  maze  of  sparkling  stars, 
Shooting  its  dewdrops  like  a  shower  of  gems, 
Till  all  the  ferns  are  decked  with  diadems. 

The  water  lilies  glimmer  through  the  glooms, 
The  graceful  grasses  lift  their  princely  plumes, 
The  velvet  mosses  on  the  boulders  brown 
Make  for  the  idler  softest  couch  of  down. 

The  caverns  underneath  are  all  so  cool, 

So  peaceful  is  the  smooth,  rush-bordered  pool, 

One  seems  to  tread  beneath  the  subtle  spell 

Of  some  sweet  nymph  who  rules  the  crystal  well. 


PATRIOTISM. 

IF  your  victorious  sword  in  foeman's  heart  finds 
sheath, 
The  world  comes  forth  to  crown  you  with  a  laurel 

wreath; 

But  if  you  fall,  no  matter  how  you  fight  and  bleed, 
It  spits  upon  your  corpse  and  crowns  you  with  a 
weed. 


MARCH. 

THE  wild  March  wind  above  the  hilltop  swells. 
And   fills   with   withered  leaves   the  hollow 
dells; 

The  hooded  buds  upon  the  haggard  trees 
Like  little  babes  wrapped  from  the  biting  breeze 
Hang  tiny  heads  of  brown,  while  bleak  winds  beat 
And  bind  them  with  a  crystal  crust  of  sleet. 

Clothed  in  a  forest  of  ancestral  elms 
With  curving  limbs  and  lithe  and  lissome  stems, 
The  hills  seem  shuddering  in  their  loneliness, 
Stripped  of  their  emerald-tufted  summer  dress, 
And  from  their  windy  tops  look  sadly  down 
Upon  the  meadows  bare  and  smooth  and  brown. 


A  FATHER'S  CURSE. 

IF  one  should  ever  harm  my  helpless  child, 
God  grant  the  spoiler  may  be  stricken  down; 
His  wicked  hopes  all  blasted  in  their  bud 
To  bear  the  burden  of  a  deadly  fruit; 
Then  may  his  cheeks  be  scarred  with  seams  of  sin, 
And  disappointment  twist  his  wrinkled  brow; 
May  hideous  nightmares  haunt  him  in  his  sleep 
And  choke  and  strangle  as  he  strives  to  scream, 
Or  come  like  snakes  to  crawl  within  his  bed, 
And  on  his  breast  in  cold  and  clamy  coils. 
May  all  his  love,  like  some  red  poison  flower 
Conceal  a  scorpion  a  deadly  sting, 
Or  like  a  flame  above  a  reeking  fen 
Allure  him  onward  to  his  place  in  hell. 


THE  ONE  THING  NEEDFUL." 

THERE  is  but  one  bliss  left  of  paradise,— 
That  is  to  know  our  love  has  been  returned; 
When  weary  cares  will  vanish  in  a  kiss, 

And  gentle  hands  will  heal  where  hate  hath  burned. 
Mere  friendship  by  itself  is  but  a  name, 
Fulfilled  ambition  but  an  empty  show, 
The  heart  a  dead  rose,  faded  from  its  flame, 
A  nest  deserted,  filled  with  winter  snow. 


IN  PARADISE. 

HOW  sweet  must  be  thy  bowers,  bedecked  in 
never-fading  blooms, 
Thy   fountains  sparkling  under  spicy  forests  ever 

green, 

Beyond  the  desolation  of  this  solemn  waste  of  tombs, 
In  stately  splendor  that  shall  never  by  mine  eyes  be 
seeli. 

Each  year  a  band  departs  that  binds  me  closer  unto 

thee; 
Each  year  my  path  grows  darker  as  I  lose  them  one 

by  one; 
And  looking  from  their  blooming  isles  of  joy,  they 

pity  me, 
Amid   Earth's  fading  autumn  bowers,    so  chilly, 

dark  and  lone. 


STANZAS  TO  MADELINE. 

I  DO  not  love  thee  for  thy  queenly  grace, 
Nor  all  thy  blooming  beauties,  which  outshine 
The  stars  that  twinkle  round  the  full  moon's  face, 
Or  roseate  splendors  of  the  day's  decline. 

For  dearest,  thou  art  good  and  true  and  sweet, 
And  when  I  take  thy  gentle  hand  in  mine, 

I  trust  to  thee  to  guide  my  faltering  feet 

Through  gloom  or  glory,  with  thy  love  divine. 

Through  radiant  noons,  and  sombre  shades  of  eve 
When  golden  sunbeams  perish  in  the  night, 

Around  my  eager  heart  thy  soft  spells  weave 
Enchanted  fancies  full  of  deep  delight. 

Thy  words  of  kindness  in  my  bosom  glow, 
So  golden  summer  decks  in  sweeter  bloom, 

Or,  when  the  winter  night  is  chill  with  snow, 
The  flying  winds  sing  sweetly  through  the  gloom. 


CALLISTA 

AGAINST  the  flinty  rocks  the  wild  waves  clash, 
From  sable  clouds  the  fitful  lightnings  flash, 
And  in  the  rocking  tempest,  far  on  high 
The  scattered  flocks  of  sea-birds  homeward  fly, — 
But  I  heed  not  the  storm-clouds  as  they  roll, 
For  deeper  darkness  covers  all  my  soul. 

Why  can  not  I  protect  thee  from  the  storm? 
Curst  be  the  blast  that  beats  thy  tender  form ! 
Before  thou  lov'dst  me,  happiness  was  thine, 
Thy  life  not  snared  within  the  woes  of  mine; 
Thy  wert  a  bud  born  on  a  summer  day 
Where  winter  winds  were  never  known  to  stray. 

But  now  from  out  thy  garden  cast,  to  die, 
I  see  thee  with  thy  bleeding  bosom  lie, 
Thy  shining  locks  bedabbled  with  the  rain, 
Thy  sweet  lips  sprinkled  with  a  crimson  stain, 
A  white-robed  figure  with  a  face  of  woe, 
Amid  the  blackness,  pale  and  cold  as  snow. 

In  vain  I  clasp  thee  to  my  bosom  warm, 

In  vain  I  press  thy  pallid,  pulseless  form; 

The  lightnings  flash  so  I  can  see  thy  face, 

And  awful  anguish  there  hath  left  its  trace; 

I  see  amid  the  glitter  of  their  light 

The  red  wound  dripping  from  thy  breasts  of  white. 


Callista.  227 

Callista,  darling,  I  have  murdered  thee 
Beside  the  wild  waves  of  the  sobbing  sea; 
And  hast  thou  left  me,  sweet,  forevermore  ? — 
'Twas  for  the  best  that  cruel  wound  I  tore, — 
Yes  for  the  best,  but  I  am  wild  with  pain, — 
Callista,  wilt  thou  not  return  again  ? 

Thou  knowest  all  the  maddening  love  I  feel, 
Which  made  me  in  thy  bosom  drive  the  steel. 
The  hated  bridegroom  came  across  the  sea 
To  take  the  love  that  was  alone  for  me; 
The  feast  was  set,  the  music  pealed  thy  doom, 
His  sails  were  set  to  bear  thee  to  his  home. 

We  fled,  and  on  our  flight  his  minions  hung, 

But  by  my  side  my  darling  closely  clung, 

For  like  blood-hounds  they  yelled  in  sight  behind 

And  sought  to  seize  thee  in  mine  arms  entwined. 

How  I  remember  now  thy  piteous  cries, 

While  clinging  to  my  neck  with  streaming  eyes! 

I  did  not  wait,  my  dagger  flashed  like  fire, — 

I  saw  its  wrath  within  thy  heart  expire! 

Thy  lips  half  opened  in  a  piteous  cry, 

And  then  I  saw  thee  on  my  bosom  die; 

Then,  when  they  saw  thee  perish  from  my  wrath, 

They  dared  not  follow  on  my  fearful  path. 

The  foreign  hawk  must  seize  some  other  bride, 
He  can  not,  shall  not,  tear  thee  from  my  side! 


228  Callista. 

I  slew  thee  and  I  slew  my  soul  with  thee, 
But  still  thou  art  no  slave,  thy  heart  is  free! 
Nor  will  I  have  to  curse  the  despot's  band 
That  might  have  bound  thee  in  his  hapless  land. 

Callista,  thou  art  now  an  angel  blest, 
While  I  must  wander  without  hope  or  rest, 
Beautiful  heaven  is  thy  happy  home, 
While  I,  an  exile,  still  on  earth  must  roam; 
O,  seraph  maiden,  on  thy  starry  throne, 
Behold  me,  I  am  friendless  and  alone! 

To-morrow  will  the  sun  rise  fair  again, 

But  for  thy  lover  it  will  rise  in  vain. 

The  songs  of  spring  shall  never  sooth  my  grief, 

My  heart  shall  wither  like  an  autumn  leaf; 

My  pathway,  once  bestrewn  with  summer  blooms, 

Shall  lead  forever  through  a  waste  of  tombs. 


ON   A   LOCK   OF   MARIE  ANTOINETTE'S 
HAIR, 

Placed  beside  one  from  the  head  of  the  Dauphin,  at  the 
New  Orleans  Centennial. 

HERE  in  this  bustling  western  world  of  ours 
Thou  liest  lonely  as  the  throngs  pass  by, 
Like  some  bright  bloom  torn  from  its  native  bowers, 

Or  hapless  peri  banished  from  on  high. 
Shorn  from  the  regal  head  long  years  ago, 

Thy  golden  playmates  to  the  grave  all  given — 
A  plume  dropped  from  an  angel's  wing  below 
When  turning  in  an  upward  flight  to  heaven. 

I  ponder  long  upon  the  tearful  tale 

Of  her  the  fairest  flower  of  her  day — 
A  song  of  triumph  ending  in  a  wail, 

A  throb  of  gladness  lost  in  deep  dismay. 
Wherever  I  may  tread  it  haunts  me  still 

When  snowfiakes  fall  or  vernal  blossoms  blow, 
A  tale  that  makes  the  brightest  eyes  to  fill, 

That  beauty  like  thine  ever  leads  to  woe. 

I  see  the  splendors  of  the  Austrian  court, 
And  she  its  jewel  and  its  morning  star, 

Surrounded  by  a  hundred  frowning  forts 
And  all  the  splendor  and  the  state  of  war. 


230      On  a  Lock  of  Marie  Antoinette  s  Hair. 

I  see  her  now  decked  as  a  monarch's  bride, 
A  queenly  rose  in  all  her  radiant  charms; 

Two  mighty  nations  turn  to  her  in  pride 

Beneath  their  banners  and  emblazoned  arms. 


Again  I  see  her  when  the  furious  mob 

Whose  myriad  grizzled  faces  writhe  and  glow, 
Has  blanched  her  cheek  and  wrung  forth  many  a  sob 

Till  all  her  golden  locks  are  white  as  snow. 
And  then  the  last  scene  comes  before  mine  eyes 

When  Death  has  draped  her  in  his  fatal  veil; 
I  see  the  scaffold  in  the  darkness  rise 

Where  stands  the  headsman  with  his  glittering 
steel. 


And  here  beside  the  mother's  strands  of  gold 

I  see  the  little  Dauphin's  silken  hair, 
As  close  as  when  she  would  her  boy  enfold 

Before  the  coming  of  her  last  despair. 
I  see  the  frantic  flashing  of  her  eyes 

When  he  is  torn  from  out  her  eager  arms; 
I  hear  her  prayers  and  her  piercing  cries 

While  clinging  to  him  in  her  fierce  alarms; 


Then,  like  a  tigress  brought  at  last  to  bay, 
Her  furious  anguish  drives  her  on  her  foes; 

But  soon  they  snatch  her  pretty  boy  away 
And  leave  her  sinking  in  despairing  throes. 


On  a  Lock  of  Marie  Antoinette' s  Hair.       231 

Thou  couldst  not  then  one  manly  champion  find, 
Since  every  fate  had  plotted  to  destroy; 

Else  thousands  would  have  died  and  called  to  mind 
Another  Helen  and  another  Troy. 

I  see  thee  in  the  dwellings  of  the  dead 

By  Cleopatra,  thrilled  with  piercing  pangs, 
Whose  beauteous  breast,  an  asp  has  made  his  bed, 

Sucking  her  nipples  with  his  fiery  fangs. 
And  there  beside  thee  is  the  lovely  maid 

Whose  dagger  slew  the  fierce,  unnatural  sire, 
And  Mary  Stewart,  by  the  headsman's  blade 

That  quenched  in  night  her  heart's  impassioned 
fire. 


DELIA. 

HER  sparkling  eyes  are  like  two  drops  of  dew 
That  twinkle  under  summer  skies  of  blue, 
Her  cheeks  like  lilies  flushed  by  dawn  of  day, 
Her  sweet  mouth  sweeter  than  the  month  of  May; 
Her  little  blue-veined  feet,  so  soft,  so  swift, 
That  from  the  earth  her  figure  seem  to  lift, 
So  white,  so  airy,  free  from  spot  and  stain, 
Are  like  the  doves  that  wafted  Cupid's  wain; 
Her  bosom's  like  the  cloud  by  morning  spun, 
Decked  in  the  roses  of  the  rising  sun, 
And  on  her  swelling,  gently-heaving  breast 
White-wing6d  Love  hath  built  his  happy  nest. 

No  other  maiden  lives  in  hut  or  hall 

Nor  ever  breathed  since  Eve's  and  Adam's  fall 

To  vie  with  her  in  gentleness  and  grace; 

And  she  outshines  them  with  her  lovely  face, 

As  gladsome  summer,  warm  with  fragrant  flowers, 

Outshines  cold  autumn's  gaudy,  lifeless  bowers, 

As  radiant  stars  in  jeweled  skies  outshine 

The  stony  gems  set  in  a  chilly  mine. 


MORTALITY. 

MINE  eyes  behold  an  old  man's  callous  corpse 
With  grizzled  hair  and  wrinkled  cheeks  and 

brows; 

I  wonder  if  he  lost  or  won  the  race  of  life, 
And  if  he  earned  its  glory  or  disgrace; — 
No  matter  now,  for  it  is  all  the  same 
Were  this  dead  man  a  pauper  or  a  prince. 

I  know  not  if  in  far,  hot-blooded  youth, 

He  revelled  in  its  sweet  forbidden  joys, 

When  woman  and  when  wine  were  Sin's  first  snares, 

And  Sin  herself  was  beautiful  and  bright 

Before  her  form  grew  hideous  in  the  end; — 

If  so,  he  learned,  as  others,  that  those  joys 

When  at  their  height  are  but  akin  to  pain. 

I  know  not  if  he  trod  through  Virtue's  ways 
The  dull,  dry  desert  of  our  common  life; — 
If  so,  no  angel  came  to  crown  his  brow, 
Nor  cometh  now  to  bear  him  to  the  skies. 


TJ&I7BRSIT7 


A  WISH. 

I  LONG  to  see  thee,  dearest,  as  of  yore, 
And  find  thee  happy  as  in  perished  years; 
To  see  the  smile  upon  thy  warm,  sweet  mouth 
Play  like  a  sunbeam  round  a  budding  rose; 
To  see  the  blushes  blooming  through  the  snows 
Amid  the  cherub  dimples  of  thy  cheek; 
To  see  thy  soft  eyes  haunt  my  steps  again 
Like  glorious  velvet  winge*d  butterflies. 

But  I  have  lost  thee,  and  thy  face,  my  love, 
Seems  like  an  angel's  at  the  gate  of  heaven, 
When,  watching  for  a  loved  one  left  on  earth, 
And  after  waiting  weary,  weary  years, 
It  sees  its  darling  counted  with  the  lost. 


THE  BARD. 

i 


F  on  your  brow  should  rest  the  poet's  bays, 
Your  feet  must  tread  on  thistles  all  your  days; 


If  Poesie  should  bid  you  share  her  bliss, 
Her  lips  will  sting  you  when  they  give  a  kiss; 

And  though  your  heart  and  harp  should  ring  in 

rhyme 
As  the  doe's  heart  beats  with  her  mate's  in  time, 

At  last,  a  deer  that  hears  the  bloodhound's  bay, 
Your  heart  grows  mad  with  passions  fierce  for  prey; 

And  then  your  harp-strings  sigh  for  joys  of  yore, 
As  chill  winds  sigh  when  summer  days  are  o'er; 

Too  late,  too  late!  If  you  the  laurels  wear, 
Think  not  to  trip  through  fields  and  forests  fair; 

For  you  must  tread  through  famine,  fire  and  flood, 
And  write  your  poems  from  your  own  heart's  blood. 


FRAGMENTS 

FROM 

"CLARIBEL  AND  OTHER  POEMS." 
1882 


TO  MY  LITTLE  NIECE, 

ALMA  VERNEY  MALONE, 

I  INSCRIBE  THESE  VERSES 
OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 


INEZ. 

1SEE  her  on  a  crimson  velvet  seat 
At  midnight,  in  a  hall  encircled  round 
With  dazzling  lights  that  glare  with  eyes  of  fire 
Upon  her  as  she  reigns  above  them'  all, 
A  hundred  lords  and  ladies  of  degree. 

Not  like  the  haughty  dame,  whose  queenly  form 

Seems  chiseled  out  of  arctic  ice  and  snow; 

With  golden  tresses  and  with  azure  eyes 

Above  a  bosom  white  as  water  lilies, 

So  that  she  seems  the  spirit  of  the  spring. 

Returning  through  the  winter's  kingdom  white, 

With  sunshine  and  with  velvet  violets, — 

No,  hers  the  beauty  of  the  Persian  maid 

Which  Oriental  lovers  hold  so  dear. 

Her  face  is  like  a  yellow  crocus  bloom, 

Or  like  the  golden  orange  of  the  South, 

And  when  the  red  blush  mantles  to  her  cheeks, 

She  seems  the  setting  of  a  summer  sun 

In  the  soft  bosom  of  a  rosy  cloud. 

A  cactus  blossom  in  her  sable  hair 

Gives  to  the  gloomy  grandeur  of  its  night 

The  scarlet  splendor  of  a  setting  star. 


240  Inez. 

Ah,  sweet  enchantress  of  the  passionate  South, 

You  chain  your  victims  with  a  chain  of  gold; 

But  close  to  you  I  see  a  lover  stand, 

His  jealous  hand  upon  his  dagger's  hilt, 

His  dark  face  scowling  there  beside  your  own,- 

A  cobra  and  a  gorgeous  tropic  flower. 


REALIZED  HOPES. 

DESIRES  dear  to  our  souls,  that  come  to  pass 
Have   more   deceit   than    those   which    dis 
appoint, 

And  heartfelt  hopes,  when  in  the  end  fulfilled, 
Bring  more  heart-sickness  than  the  hopes  that  fail. 


DESPAIR. 

CAN  a  drop  raise  the  ocean  ?     A  wren's  feather 
Add  weight  unto  the  world?     A  moment's 

time 

Add  to  the  length  of  God's  eternity? 
Can  death  add  one  more  pang  to  this  numb  heart 
Whose  shadows  are  so  deep  their  lightest  hue 
Is  darker  than  the  plume  the  vulture  wears 
Amid  far-off  enchanted  spirit  lands; 
Whose  silence  is  terrific  as  the  tomb 
That  hides  the  wreck  of  undone  Babylon; 
Whose  pangs  are  like  a  scream  in  haunted  halls 
In  some  dire,  rocking  storm,  at  midnight- time; 
Whose  sleep  no  drug  can  add  nightmare  unto; 
Whose  whole  self  is  a  grave,  like  Egypt's  realms 
Strewn  with  the  ruins  of  a  thousand  years; 
Which  never  from  the  charnel  shall  arise, 
Or  feel  the  morning  s-tar  above  the  awful  waste  ? 


THE  COMING  OF  APRIL. 

IN  gardens  ot  green  young  April  is  queen; 
She  scatters  the  winter  snows; 
Like  a  blithesome  boy,  with  laughter  and  joy, 

She  banishes  worldly  woes. 
She  treadeth  the  earth  with  music  and  mirth, 

Her  lap  overflowing  with  sweets, 
With  daffodillies  and  valley  lilies 

And  showers  in  silver  sheets; 
With  blushing  roses,  narcissus  posies, 

The  velvet  greensward  to  illume, 
And  the  hyacinth  from  its  curly  plinth, 

The  sweetest  flower  that  ever  breathed  perfume. 

Like  the  green  sea- waves  are  the  forest  leaves, 

As  they  dance  in  the  morning  breeze, 
And  they  quiver  and  bound  with  a  merry  sound 

To  the  boom  of  the  honeybees. 
Then  the  bounteous  earth  is  giving  birth 

To  wonderful  worlds  of  life; 
On  each  warm  clod  of  the  generous  sod 

Begins  an  eager  strife; 
For  the  bursting  germs  and  the  prisoned  worms 

Feel  their  deliverance  nigh, — 
To  rise  in  bowers  of  purple  flowers 

And  many  a  butterfly. 


The   Coming  of  April.  243 

In  the  bounding  billows  of  the  waving  willows 

The  quaint  little  fairies  hide, 
And  in  garlanded  glooms  and  in  budding  blooms 

By  the  peeping  birds  are  spied; 
On  the  fragrant  lawn  the  satyr  and  faun 

Skip,  laughing  at  themselves; 
Then  the  tender  sheaves  of  the  opening  leaves 

And  the  rosebuds  cradle  the  baby  elves; 
Through  the  morning  hours,  in  the  lilac  flowers 

The  Zephyr  doth  flutter  in  flight, 
And  down  in  the  waves  the  lovely  nymph  laves, 

Whirling  her  arms  of  white; 
And  swirling  and  swinging  and  laughing  and  singing 

On  the  blossoming  boughs  of  the  tufted  trees, 
The  dryad  reclines  in  the  tangled  vines, 

Her  yellow  hair  a- waving  in  the  breeze. 

And  the  birds  themselves  are  but  tiny  elves 

Disguised  with  a  beak  and  feather, 
To  banish  our  sadness  with  songs  of  their  gladness, 

Through  sunny  or  snowy  weather; 
See  the  quaint  little  queen  with  her  eggs  of  green, 

Of  ivory  white,  or  of  blue  and  gold, 
In  a  nest  of  down  or  of  leaflets  brown, 

Where  her  pearls  into  life  shall  unfold ! 

How  changeful  the  ways  of  April's  days! 

Sunshine  and  storm,  storm  and  sunshine 
Fleetly  descending  are  sweetly  blending 

From  the  violet  vale  to  the  mountain  pine. 


244  The   Coming  of  April. 

Like  a  maiden  in  love  she  blushes  above 

Or  smiles  with  a  downcast  glance, 
Then  shows  by  a  start  the  love  of  her  heart, 

Yet  fearing  to  advance; 
Pretending  to  detest  the  one  she  loves  best, 

And  pouting  in  his  face, 
Now  timid  and  coy,  now  bubbling  with  joy, 

And  leading  her  lover  a  chase. 

We  never  know  why,  but  often  we  sigh 

In  the  April  hours  sweet; 
For  beauty  and  gladness  tread  ever  with  sadness, 

And  never  apart  those  three  we  meet; 
So,  with  hand  in  hand,  and  from  land  to  land, 

Through   the   morning  light  and  the  noon-day 

glow, 
Under  footsteps  fleet  bringing  bitter  and  sweet 

They  scatter  bliss  and  woe. 

When  the  blithe  bird  notes  from   the  tiny  trilling 
throats 

Quiver  or  tremble  or  dance  through  the  air, 
When  the  flowers  consume  their  lives  in  perfume, 

They  oppress  our  souls  with  care; — 
A  lonesome  unrest  that  leaps  in  the  breast, 

Cloying  alike  a  voluptuous  vision, 
Like  the  piercing  bliss  of  love's  first  kiss, 

Too  thrilling  but  for  spirits  elysian. 

Soon  April  has  flown  and  left  us  alone 
In  the  fields  of  the  fading  year; 


The   Coming  of  April.  245 

The  garlands  she  gathered  are  blighted  and  withered, 

And  her  bowers  are  silent  and  sere; 
Her  bird  songs  are  banished,  her  flowers  are  vanished 

In  the  sultry  summer  heat; 
Then  stern  winter  blows  his  whirlwind  of  snows 

And  fetters  with  frost  and  sleet. 

So  when  love  has  departed,  we  roam  broken-  hearted , 

Through  a  passionate  torrid  zone, 
And  dreams  of  the  past,  too  lovely  to  last, 

Shall  leave  us  in  winter  alone. 


THE  HUMMING-BIRD. 

I  FLIT  through  the  bovvers  of  April  flowers 
And  the  mellow  skies  of  June, 
O'er  sparkling  floods  and  bloomy  woods, 

From  orient  morn  to  radiant  noon. 
From  the  fairy  cells  of  budding  bells 

I  suck  the  golden  honey; 
They  sway  and  they  swing  at  the  wave  of  my  wing, 

And  my  fires  make  shadows  sunny. 
Unknown  to  pain  and  earthly  stain, 

I  glitter  near  and  far: 
My  courses  I  run,  like  a  beam  from  the  sun, 

Or  a  midnight  shooting  star. 

In  the  torrid  zone  my  fires  are  sown. 

And  in  northern  worlds  of  ice, 
Over  wizard  strands  in  the  arctic  lands 

And  the  palmy  isles  of  paradise. 
Where  the  awful  night  in  winter  bedight 

Shrouds  desolate,  boundless  seas, 
I  glint  through  the  glooms  with  butterfly  plumes 

When  the  mariner  despairing  flees; 
The  dark-eyed  maiden  of  the  southern  Eden 

Far,  far  from  the  kingdom  of  snows, 
Will  give  me  a  smile  as  I  bask  awhile 

In  the  heart  of  a  tropic  rose. 


The  Humming -Bird.  247 

No  mortal  sorrow,  no  fear  of  the  morrow 

Can  darken  my  rainbow  hours, 
Though  the  bale  be  thine,  the  bliss  shall  be  mine; 

I  live  forever  in  budding  flowers; 
When  the  buds  I  cherished  have  pined  and  have 
perished, 

I  fly  to  the  younger  blooms; 
I  know  not  the  dearth  of  this  lone  earth, 

Nor  the  shades  of  its  silent  tombs; 
By  the  angels  given,  I  flutter  from  heaven, 

I  can  not  abide  in  a  cage, 
I  beat  at  my  bars  to  soar  to  the  stars 

Till  I  die  in  restless  rage. 


A  WINTER  MIDNIGHT. 

THE  huge    snowflakes  seem    shaking  phantom 
wings, 

And  now  the  wind  a  song  of  madness  sings; 
The  haggard  branches  croon  a  runic  verse 
And  wave  their  wild  wands  in  a  wizard  curse. 


OPPORTUNITY. 

ONE  fateful  hour  may  be  life's  diadem, 
Each  of  its  moments  be  a  precious  gem; 
Then  grasp  the  jewels  ere  the  door  be  shut, 
Lest  thou  shouldst  lose  thy  palace  for  a  hut 


THE  VICTOR. 

WHEN   Love  shall  be  her  sword,  her  virtue, 
shield, 
The  timid  maiden  wins  on  every  field. 


LOVE  AFTER  DEATH. 

IF  in  the  life  to  come  our  ways  should  part, 
My  feet  should  seek  forever  for  my  queen 
And  I  would  come  to  clasp  her  to  my  heart 
Though  fifty  worlds  were  interposed  between. 


ONE  SUMMER. 

THE  thorns  upon  this  world  of  ours 
Sometimes  bud  forth  in  gentle  flowers; 
Where  night  has  made  our  earth  forlorn 
Will  rise  at  last  a  radiant  morn; 
On  this  short  journey  to  the  tomb 
Some  thrilling  voice  will  break  the  gloom; 
But  Youth  and  Love  when  once  passed  by 
Leave  all  our  dearest  hopes  to  die; 
Their  piercing  joy  and  blissful  pain 
Once  felt,  are  never  felt  again. 

A  sojourn  at  a  farm  in  June, 

When  fields  were  fresh  and  woods  in  tune, 

When  bare  existence  was  a  joy 

To  me,  a  fond  and  foolish  boy! 

Ah  yes,  my  dream  of  love  was  done, 

At  setting  of  that  summer  sun! 

Ah,  little  modest  country  maid, 
Doomed  with  the  summer  day  to  fade, 
Too  fragile  and  too  fair  to  last, 
Lost  flower  of  the  happy  past! 
I  see  you  still  beside  me  here, 
Just  as  you  looked  that  bygone  year. 
Your  sweet  face  smiles  within  my  reach 
Amid  pink  blossoms  of  the  peach, 


250  One  Summer. 

Or  wreathed  with  wild  grapes  from  the  wood, 
Your  cheeks  stained  with  their  purple  blood 
Or  rising  like  a  pure,  pale  flower 
Amid  a  scarlet  poppy  bower. 

I  see  you  still  with  eyes  of  blue, 
The  darkest  pansy's  deepest  hue; 
Your  brown  hair  gently  wavers  down 
And  glimmers  like  a  copper  crown' 
A  basket  on  your  arm  you  bear, 
An  awkward  little  bonnet  wear; 
Fresh  as  the  dewy  wild  woods  green, 
My  little  sweetheart,  and  my  queen! 

Her  goodness  warms  misfortune's  dearth 
And  makes  a  heaven  out  of  earth; 
Singing  she  cooks  the  scanty  meal, 
Or  chatting,  turns  the  creaking  wheel; 
With  hoe  and  huge  straw  hat,  she  leads 
Destructive  war  against  the  weeds, 
Till  I,  a  dapper  city  clerk, 
Begin  to  help  her  with  her  work, 
And  sometimes  try  to  milk  her  cows, 
Or  with  her  drive  them  out  to  browse. 

She  tells  me  names  of  birds  and  trees, 

And  habits  of  the  honeybees, 

She  shows  me  where  blackberries  grow 

And  where  the  pink  wild  roses  blow. 

She  sits  with  me  in  mossy  nooks 

Of  sylvan  shades  and  bubbling  brooks. 


O?ie  Summer.  251 

And  then  we  see  the  red- bird  shy, 
A  blazing  blossom,  flutter  by 
And  proudly  shake  his  crimson  plumes 
And  chirp  amid  the  verdant  glooms; 
The  brown  thrush,  of  a  humbler  cr^st, 
With  calm  eyes  watches  from  her  nest. 
We  roam  beside  the  deep  green  pools 
In  which  the  bulfrog  blithly  rules 
And  leaps  among  the  daffodillies, 
Blue  flags  and  snowy  water  lilies. 

With  her  I  watch  the  evening  star 

Begin  to  tremble  from  afar, 

The  moon  arising  in  the  night 

And  robing  all  the  world  in  white;* 

Then,  when  the  mock-bird,  sweet  and  wild,-— 

The  forest's  untamed  poet-child, — 

Begins  to  twitter  trills  of  bliss, 

I  snare  my  sweetheart  with  a  kiss! 

But  Autumn  comes  with  footsteps  chilly, 
And  slays  the  blue-bell  and  the  lily; 
The  purple  and  the  golden  asters  wave 
Above  the  pansy's  lonely  grave. 
I  leave  her,  and  I  turn  once  more, 
To  see  her  weeping  at  her  door. 
And  then  another  look, — the  last, 
When  dying  day  is  nearly  past; 
Her  hands  are  curved  above  her  eyes 
That  watch  me  like  two  jealous  spies; 


252  One  Summer. 

The  setting  sunbeams  light  her  hair, 
Then  leave  her  in  her  lone  despair; 
She  lingers  still  until  the  night 
Shuts  her  forever  from  my  sight. 

Amid  the  dust  and  roar  and  heat 
That  choke  the  city's  crowded  street, 
I  see  her  locking  to  the  town 
Across  the  autumn  fields  of  brown, 
Towards  a  happier,  higher  life, 
Than  waits  the  future  farmer's  wife, 
While  heartless  fortune  holds  her  down, 
And  mates  her  with  a  common  clown. 

Ah,  precious  little  country  girl, 
Who  beamed  forlorn,  an  ocean  pearl, 
A  sweet,  low-waving  wildwood  rose, 
Frail  poem  in  a  world  of  prose! 

Again  I  ponder  all  alone, 

While  snowflakes  fall  and  bleak  winds  moan, 

And  hear  the  tread  of  restless  feet 

Along  the  city's  dingy  street, 

And  yearn  to  see  her  face  again 

To  ease  my  aching  heart  of  pain, — 

Returning  from  the  Long  Ago 

Beyond  her  silent  shroud  of  snow! 


TRIBUTE  TO  SHELLEY. 

HE  was  the  son  of  Beauty  and  of  Love, 
Born  in  the  lilies  of  the  land  of  dreams; 
A  blithesome  boy,  who  wandered  from  his  home 
In  all  his  sweetness  and  his  innocence, 
And  brought  to  earth  mellifluous  melodies, 
Sung  by  the  song-birds  in  its  wondrous  woods; 
The  gladsome  singer  of  the  summer  hours, 
The  fair-haired  playmate  of  the  budding  blooms, 
Who  flitted  like  a  shadow  from  our  sight 
Amid  our  autumn's  waste  of  withered  leaves. 

O,  wondrous  child,  thine  innocence  hath  power 
To  soar  to  heights  where  sages  can  not  tread, 
Thy  sweetness  thrills  the  cheerless  heart  of  earth, 
With  strains  triumphant  of  a  starry  lyre; 
Our  poets  bring  us  fading  flowers  of  earth, 
Thou  bearest  blossoms  from  the  fields  of  heaven. 

His  heart  was  deathless,  but  his  form  was  dust, 
His  breath  is  still  and  he  will  sing  no  more! 
It  seemed  the  fire  that  lived  within  his  heart 
Should  warm  his  breast  within  the  frozen  ground, 
So  that  the  Earth  would  throb  within  her  womb 
And  give  new  birth  unto  her  fairest  son, 
Just  as  the  violets  of  the  fragrant  spring 
Are  withered  but  to  rise  as  fair  again. 


254  Tribute  to  Shelley. 

But  only  lowly  buds  again  can  bloom; 
When  angels  fall  they  fall  to  rise  no  more, 
And  stars  once  darkened,  never  beam  again. 

But  he  shall  dwell  in  lovelier  lands  than  this, 

Low  Earth  he  leaves  to  reign  in  Paradise, — 

A  land  of  lilies  and  a  land  of  love, 

Rich  with  the  roses  of  eternal  day, 

Beyond  the  woes  of  this  poor  world  of  ours, 

Beyond  the  splendors  of  the  radiant  morn, 

Where  love  doth  live  unchanged,  unharmed  by  time 

And  where  the  canker  touches  not  the  flower. 

I  am  left  here  in  loneliness  and  pain, 
Condemned  to  sing  such  humble  songs  as  this, 
To  yearn  for  power  that  is  all  his  own ; 
Where  all  our  best  songs  crave  for  nobler  things, — 
Whose  mortal  rage,    chained   down,   laments   our 

fate, — 

The  common  wailings  of  all  hearts  together. 
But  I  am  happy  if  my  loving  hands 
Can  add  one  jewel  to  his  sparkling  crown. 


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